The Boy No One Loved

by Casey Watson

  The preparations for Justin’s party had been going on in secret for a couple of weeks now, and I’d taken great care to ensure that he didn’t twig. All he knew was that we were going to have a ‘little family tea party’, with just my niece and nephew coming round to play. It was sobering to see just how excited he was about the low-key event we’d pretended we were putting on for him – clearly the celebration of his own special day had never been a part of his young life. So I couldn’t wait to surprise him with the real one I’d dreamed up – in reality, my plans were way bigger. I’d invited a couple of my close friends, plus various members of my extended family including my niece and nephew, of course, as they were both around Justin’s age. I’d also been in cahoots with Justin’s new teaching assistant, Cathy. Because it was to be a surprise, I couldn’t ask Justin to invite school friends, so instead, she’d helpfully done some research and identified half a dozen children who Justin seemed to be on good terms with. She did comment that finding more than that would be a pretty tall order, as, given the extent of his emotional problems, he found it difficult to make and keep friends. Still, I thought, with the numbers swelled by the Watson contingent (always enthusiastic party goers, us lot!), I was sure that would be plenty to create a buzz.

  I was already buzzing with ideas for it, for sure. We all were. Since The Little Mermaid was one of Justin’s favourite Disney films, we’d decided to theme his party around that; our plan was to completely transform the back garden as a sort of ‘undersea kingdom’, complete with beach, swimming pool and lots of themed decorations. Both Kieron and Riley had been a great help in all this, spending hours with me making all the things that we needed. I was so proud of them both – they had leapt upon the project with genuine enthusiasm, and seemed as keen as I was that we’d make the day as special as we could.

  Riley had made all sorts of papier-mâché sea creatures – starfish and crabs and lots of different kinds of fish – while Kieron had been equally busy with paint and glue and scissors, painting and cutting out lots of giant underwater plant life for us to stick up along the length of the garden fence. He’d also come with me to get a few enormous bags of play sand, so we could make a proper beach, and then there was the pièce de résistance, of course. It had been something of a major extravagance, I knew, but the centrepiece of the whole party was a small rigid swimming pool I’d hired for the day. It was eight feet in diameter and an impressive three feet deep, and the company were coming to erect it and fill it later in the morning.

  Having thrown open the curtains and treated Mike to a couple of bars of ‘Who can Buy This Wonderful Morning’ as an extra inducement not to lie and fester, I harried Mike from the bedroom (though he might have called it ‘escaping’) and asked him nicely to put the kettle on while I showered. I still had a whole load of preparations to get finished, and he needed to get on with things as well. He was supposed to be taking Justin swimming this morning, the trip to the pool and a chance to play on the water slides being what we’d told Justin his main birthday treat was. I hummed to myself as I turned on the shower. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he returned and saw what his real birthday treat was.

  The day had started well, and I was glad. Mike and I had given Justin new trainers for his main present, together with a PlayStation game he wanted and a selection of DVDs. He’d already had a card from his ‘team’ with a gift voucher in it, another card with a £10 voucher from his social worker, Harrison, and when the morning post arrived – and about which I’d been fretting very much – another card had come, which he immediately recognised.

  ‘It’s from Mum!’ he cried, his face alight with joy as he saw it. ‘I know it is! I recognise the writing!’ He ripped it open while I tried to feel the same sense of enthusiasm. Couldn’t she at least have managed a parcel? A surprise? Something for him to open? But no, it was just a card with a tenner in.

  ‘Look, Casey!’ Justin shouted excitedly, even so. ‘Ten pounds! She has hardly any money and she sent this! And look – my little brothers have both signed it by themselves!’ His pleasure was almost palpable; he was just so damned happy!

  I’d tried to feel happy for him, too. I was happy for him. A child’s love for their parent is completely unconditional, and I could see how much this small effort she’d made truly meant to him. But it was hard, because it stuck in my throat. She was his mother – she should want to give her all to her child.

  It wasn’t the fact that she had only sent money, because I knew that ten pounds had probably stretched her financially. But surely she could have put some thought into spending that money on a small gift, something she knew that Justin could keep and treasure, even put into his memory box? It was so tragic how little real, consistent effort she’d made for her son. And unprompted? The cynical me wondered about that too. Had social services given her a nudge?

  Stop it, I’d said to myself. Just be happy he’s so happy. And very soon – a few hours later – he would be even happier. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself letting on.

  An hour later, and having finally seen Mike and Justin off, I thought I’d pop up and have a quick clear of Justin’s room. If he was having school friends over – a first – then I wanted him to be able to make a good impression, so I thought I’d have a tidy up, make the bed, have a quick flick round with the duster; just make it look more inviting and free up some floor space.

  I had no thought in my head that wasn’t party related – why would I? – as I gathered up DVDs and stray toys. He had a box, a plastic crate, in which he kept all his soldiers, and I thought it would be a good idea to put it out of the way, under the bed, along with a couple of other boxes which were taking up floor space. It was while doing so that I came upon the suitcase.

  Well, not came upon, exactly, because it had been there from day one. It was the case he’d arrived with, which had held his pitifully few possessions, and it had been stored under his bed from the off. I’d thought it was empty – when I’d discovered all the scissors and blades, it certainly had been – but as I went to move it (I wanted to shove it along a bit, to fit the crate in) it was clear that it wasn’t empty now. It was so weighty, in fact, that I was unable to slide it along one handed, so instead I grabbed the handle and pulled it half out. Intrigued now about what could be the cause of its great weight, and with a sudden slight anxiety about what I might find, I pulled it fully out and undid the zip.

  The sight that greeted me was an astonishing one. I’m not sure I’d had any idea what to expect, but not in a million years would I have imagined what I did see. The case was full of food. There were literally hundreds of small food items in there, all neatly stacked and sorted in order of shape and size. There were packets of sweets, different chocolate bars, crisps and instant pudding mixes, packets of dried soup; all manner of different kinds of non-perishable foods. None were opened, and there was also a hand-written note sitting on top of them, in which Justin had painstakingly catalogued every item in his big scrawly handwriting. He’d taken care, I noted, even as I sat there, bewildered, to spell carefully and write on the lines.

  Apart from that, though, I don’t think I had a coherent thought in my head. I simply gawped at it all, unable to believe my eyes. But one thing was clear. They hadn’t come from my cupboards. They were budget-range items, own-brand supermarket products, and didn’t even come from the supermarket I used. So where had they come from? Had he stolen them from somewhere? And what were they all there for, anyway? This wasn’t just a stash of goodies for an impromptu midnight feast. This was strange, and unsettling, this perfectly aligned collection; something like you’d expect to come across in a piece of futuristic fiction – a collection gathered together in anticipation of a nuclear strike; the kind of thing the government might have suggested during the Cold War, along with the advice to stockpile water and to hide under the kitchen table. I looked again at the neatly compiled list that lived with them. What on earth had gone through his mind when he sat and w
rote it out? I didn’t have the slightest idea.

  And I wasn’t about to find out. Not right now. I zipped the case back up and replaced it exactly where I’d found it, then went back downstairs to make a start on the party food instead. Today was definitely not the day to confront Justin with what I’d found.

  I’d told everyone to get to ours at around one-thirty, if possible, as Mike and Justin were due back around two. By now, in the nick of time, the swimming pool was up and filled, the sunlight glinting prettily off its spangly surface. The beach was in position too, all having been carefully raked over, and Riley and Kieron and I had finished accessorising the garden which, we all agreed, looked pretty amazing. My sister and brother and their families and all our friends had arrived, and everyone was now pitching in and helping out with getting the last preparations finished, as well as keeping an eye on my niece and nephew, to make sure they didn’t sneak off and clamber into the pool.

  But only one of Justin’s friends had come, so far, to my great disappointment. On top of what I’d seen in Justin’s bedroom this morning, it was really upsetting, and I’d fretted about it. Then Tarika, the deaf girl who Cathy, the teaching assistant, looked after as well as Justin, told me that the two of them seemed to get on well, and sat and ate lunch together most days.

  Tarika, who was a pretty blonde girl with enormous blue eyes, had been dropped off by her parents at 1.30, as agreed, but seemed shy, and stuck to me like glue. I spent the last twenty minutes with one ear tuned to the front doorbell, just in case some more came, but they didn’t. I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter – one friend was better than no friends, after all – and that as Justin wasn’t expecting any, he wouldn’t be disappointed, would he?

  And as it turned out, perhaps predictably, he was anything but.

  ‘Wow!’ he said, eyes wide, as he surveyed his birthday kingdom. ‘Wow, Casey! This is just amazing!’ He was jumping up and down, clapping his hands, and swivelling his head to take it all in. ‘Wow! A barbecue! Oh my God, a pool! Oh, this is mint! Mike, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!’ Mike grinned at Justin’s reaction and gave him a quick squeeze around his shoulders. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he confessed, ‘but I was under strict orders.’

  I tousled Justin’s still damp curls. He was like the cat with the cream. ‘All part of the service,’ I told him. ‘It’s your special day, so you enjoy it, and that’s an order!’

  And, yes, he did. To my great relief, he didn’t even seem to really register that there was only one friend from school there – one who’d now transferred her allegiance to him and followed him around like an adoring puppy – as he was just so excited to see all the things we’d done for him, genuinely thrilled to have been made such a fuss of.

  Except at the same time, paradoxically, the atmosphere was just terrible.

  ‘I think I’m going to be mighty glad when this is all over,’ Mike commented, when coming into the kitchen to get himself a beer a couple of hours or so into the afternoon.

  ‘Too right, mate,’ my brother agreed. And with good reason. We’d only been half an hour into the festivities when it became clear that Justin just had no idea how to behave on such an occasion – his social skills, clearly tested to the limit at the sort of unstructured event that a party for a child this age was, were clearly pretty hopeless. He seemed unable to enjoy his party without spoiling it for the other children, snatching toys, throwing sand, splashing the younger ones way beyond fun. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d just been over-excited and unable to see it, but it was obvious to everyone that he could see he was upsetting them, which only seemed to serve to make him worse. It was now around four and we were all becoming weary – the other children were trying really hard to be patient with Justin, but I could tell it was wearing thin. And once again my little niece was in tears.

  ‘Should I go and have another sterner word with him, d’you think?’ I asked Mike. I had already gently chastised him on a number of occasions, but had been reticent about the idea of getting more heated or imposing sanctions because this was not an ordinary situation and this was not an ordinary child. His behaviour – more like that of an overbearing pre-schooler – was like it was for a reason. But it was becoming hard; inside my head I could feel the weight of disapproval of all the other adults, all waiting for me to call a halt to his behaviour and feeling aggrieved that I’d not sufficiently put my foot down.

  But Mike shook his head. ‘I think leave it,’ he said, after considering for a moment. ‘Why don’t we do the cake, and calm everything down for a bit? Tarika’s parents will be coming to collect her in twenty minutes anyway, and after she’s gone we can start to wind things down. In the meantime –’ he turned to my brother and grinned – ‘another beer’s the best way, I think …’

  I didn’t tackle Justin about his suitcase until the day after the party. The following evening, in fact, when I knew we could have an undisturbed half an hour alone together.

  I was out in the conservatory, having a cigarette, while Justin kicked a ball around the garden. He was getting puffed and I could see he was breaking out in a sweat, so I suggested he come and sit with me for a rest.

  ‘You’ve lost a bit of weight lately,’ I commented, as he flopped down beside me. ‘All this football must be doing you good. Tell you what,’ I added, stubbing out my cigarette and turning to face him, ‘it won’t be long before you’re off going to matches with our Kieron.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, grinning, ‘but I am getting thinner, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you are, love,’ I agreed. I paused for a second. ‘But you know, you’ll also have to cut back on all the sweets and stuff too. If you want to get seriously fit, you will, anyway.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, groaning. ‘But it’s so hard. You always have such nice stuff in your cupboards! You’ll have to starve me, prob’ly.’ He laughed, then. ‘Only joking about that, C!’

  This, I decided, was a very good moment. He was clearly relaxed and in a jolly sort of mood. And we were on the subject of food. Perfect. ‘Listen, love,’ I said to him then. ‘Can I ask you about something? I’m not annoyed –’ I put a hand on his arm to reassure him – ‘I’m just puzzled. When I was cleaning your room yesterday, I came upon your suitcase, and it was so heavy I couldn’t move it … and, well, I saw all your food …’

  ‘I didn’t steal it!’ he said straight away, immediately defensive.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you did,’ I told him gently. ‘I just wondered where –’

  ‘I bought it. I bought all of it,’ he said. ‘I get it from the supermarket by the school, with my pocket money. It’s my money, isn’t it? I can buy what I like with it.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said soothingly, looking again into his eyes. He was feeling cornered, I could see that, but he wasn’t raging, and wasn’t about to. Like this, he wasn’t a force to be reckoned with at all. He was exactly what he was. A small, upset, bewildered child. It seemed clear to me that even he wasn’t sure what had driven him to collect it.

  ‘An’ why do you think it’s any of your business, anyway?’ he persisted, though not at all aggressively.

  I shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s not,’ I said. ‘As you say, it’s your money. But I just wondered – what were you planning on doing with it?’

  This seemed to fox him. He looked genuinely confused by the question. And as he thought about it – it was obvious he was trying to find an answer – he also seemed increasingly upset. He shrugged his shoulders, hung his head, then did something completely unexpected. He burst into tears. So I immediately gathered him into my arms.

  ‘Shh …’ I said quietly, smoothing his hair, still slightly damp from the football. ‘It’s okay. It’s okay. I just think that maybe if you could explain to me why you have it … if we could talk about it, then …’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ he said, sobbing. ‘I just … sometimes just have to eat. I just have to have it there, so I’ve got it …’


  ‘Just in case.’

  I felt him nod. ‘It’s just like … it’s like I’ve got this big hole in my stomach. An’ it makes me feel sick, and it hurts, and it’s there all the time, so I eat to try and make it go away.’

  ‘And does it?’

  He shook his head now. ‘It never goes away. No matter how much I eat, it’s, like, it just keeps on happening. It doesn’t work. I can never fill it up.’

  ‘Like you’re empty all the time.’

  ‘Yes, empty. It’s like a hole, you know.’ He moved his arm to show me. ‘Right here. And I just want it to go away. And it never does.’

  ‘But it can,’ I said gently. ‘But not by eating. You know that. Because it doesn’t come from your stomach – not really.’ I gently placed my hand back on his head, desperately searching for a suitable analogy, ‘It comes from up here, Justin. It’s because of all the bad things that have happened to you, and all the bad things you remember. But because it’s so difficult for your mind to try to think about them, you get that tummy ache – that hole in your stomach you describe. So what we need to do is find a way we can start to make things better. You know what I do?’

  He turned to look at me. ‘You get those feelings?’

  ‘Of course I do, sweetheart. Everyone does, sometimes. And what I do is I try to think of my mind like a big wardrobe, and that all the mixed-up thoughts in my mind are like a pile of messy clothes. A bit like your real messy clothes, when you throw them around your bedroom. And what you need to do with messy clothes is to tidy them all away. So with your thoughts – your messy clothes – you do exactly the same thing. You pick up each one – each horrible thought you have, one by one – then you give it a good shake. Straighten it out, see it in daylight, make sure you’ve shaken out the creases, and once it’s straight enough to be folded, you can fold it and put it back. Tuck it away back in the wardrobe, nice and tidy.’