by Alec Dunn
He had to catch up to Stephanie.
Fourteen: The Kindness of Strangers
Abbey Singer sat in the car. It was her protective shell.
The streets outside were desolate and rough. Mean streets where life was cheap. She scanned nervously around. There were small children playing, but the road was otherwise quiet.
She was an interloper here and she knew it, a stranger to their ways, a stranger to their values. Out of place, well dressed, well spoken, well educated, raised in a middle class family, daughter of a lawyer and a dentist, she stood out as soon as she opened her mouth. She was surrounded by what her father dismissed as ‘the dregs of society’. He teased her, driven by his own sense of superiority, his need to argue others down, if she wanted to do missionary work she could have gone to Africa – at least in Africa they haven’t all had the chance of an education – honestly, Abs, there’s no helping some people – they don’t even want to put in a decent days work. – you might as well leave them to rot – you can’t do them any good, not people like that.
She looked at the three young children playing in the gutter. In the gutter! She could almost see their potential draining away down it. She felt the pangs of sorrow, the pangs of middle class guilt. What chance did they stand growing up like that? Watching them, children who were too young to be allowed out on their own, left playing in the streets, playing in the gutter, in the dirt, by the side of a road that cars travelled down, she wanted to help, to make a difference. She watched the children and could see their empty lives played out. They were going nowhere, to another broken house with a broken fence. They would create broken children with more broken lives.
She hadn’t been in the job long, but she felt tired. She suddenly felt old. She had been exposed to a world she had always known existed, but wasn’t quite ready for – the selfish ignorance and casual cruelty shocked her. When she started, she believed she could make a difference. Now, she didn’t know if she had the strength. She didn’t know if she could carry on.
She sat in the car vacantly watching the children, her brain consumed by her own dilemma – try to make a difference or give up. Her parents would smile and her father would pat her head, smiling his condescending, daddy knows best smile. Her mother would be all businesslike, talk about finding a real career.
She didn’t think she could face that. But then again she felt like she was drowning, being swept away by a tide of human misery. Could she face that?
She looked around nervously. She was a case worker for a family only two streets from where she was sitting now and it was not going well. She hoped that they didn’t come past. They knew her and they didn’t like her. They shouted and swore and made allegations. Was it only a week ago the man had stood over her and she thought he was going to hit her? She had gone back to her car, driven to a nearby car park and sat there, crying.
Thinking about them set her nerves jangling. She knew it was her primitive brain, the reptilian brain, engaging a fight or flight response. It was a basic survival instinct, but she couldn’t do either. She hadn’t been there to fight them and she couldn’t run away. She had to stand there, pretending to be calm and face it, had to let him shout in her face, had to listen to the snide comments from the woman, had to think he was going to hurt her.
Had her shaking hands been visible? Had they known how much they affected her?
It was their children she really wanted to help. She was there to help the children, had tried to help the whole family and all they did was resent her, hate her even.
Her supervisor, Marianne, had had to accompany her last visit. They had been quiet and polite to her, to the middle aged, motherly, Marianne, although there was a still a sullen atmosphere. Like naughty children caught doing something wrong, they behaved for Marianne. They talked sensibly to Marianne.
They had still made ridiculous complaints – about her being too young, too posh, too la-dee-da, that she talked down to them, that she looked down on them – when they didn’t even do what they had agreed to do to look after their own children, when they didn’t have clean beds for the children to sleep in, when they didn’t even stop their children playing in dog excrement.
They didn’t blame Marianne.
They blamed her. They hated her.
It was all part of the job, Marianne had told her. Don’t blame them for it. Don’t hate them for it. They didn’t know any better, any other way. You have to work with them. You’re good at this, but it’s hard. Grow a thick skin, she had said, you got to have a thick skin.
Abbey could feel her stomach churn like a washing machine just thinking about them. Her hands started to shake as she sat in the car only two streets away from the house in which they lived.
These streets were rough; she felt as though only she knew how rough. Knowing what went on inside some of these houses, she wanted to change it. She looked around the desolate street at the uncared for gardens and broken buildings and fences.
Still nobody was approaching.
Paperwork was strewn across the passenger seat. She glanced over at the mess for something to do, but she already knew what she was here for, a first assessment, a follow up from a phone call.
As the children played on the street, her thoughts played in her mind. She tried to remember the reason she was here, the details. Not the individual phone call. Not even the individual boy, but the big reason, the mission. She tried to remember the passion, the hope that she could make a difference. She tried to hold on to that, to hold on to herself.
A man and woman were arguing. Somewhere close by, they were screaming at each other.
The children playing in the gutter laughed. One boy grabbed another by the cheeks of his face and pushed him down onto the floor. There was more screeching. Abbey felt her stomach turn around and her hands tremor. She tried to hold on to her reason for being there, among it all, in the dirt.
She stared at the house she was sitting outside of, ignoring the children she wasn’t here to help, ignoring the couple screaming at each other and the swearing and crude insults. Remember the mission.
You can’t save them all, Marianne had said. Just do what you can, just help who you can and if you make a difference in even one person’s life then you have helped.
She stared at the house and let the shrill screams and obscenities drift to the background. Just help who you can, she repeated in her mind, just help who you can, like a mantra. She would grow her thick skin.
The house looked particularly derelict in a neighbourhood of tired houses. She looked at the curtains which looked shabby and ragged through the glass. The glass of the window looked dirty. The windowsills looked rotten. The paint of the wooden door was peeling and a crack shattered the bricks above the door like a permanent black strike of jagged lightning. The garden was a knee high morass of grass and weeds. There were concerns that a child was living alone here, concerns about neglect.
Abbey scanned the house and was aware that just because it looked like no adults lived there you couldn’t guarantee that the child was living on his own. No phone number was listed. There didn’t seem to be any connected. She couldn’t see the usual satellite dish bleeding rust down the wall. There were no bin bags of rubbish building up. It looked... deserted. She tried to think of everything, to check everything that would be useful. Help who you can, she thought.
No wonder somebody had phoned them.
She looked again at the scattered papers. The boy’s name was Maximilian O’Connell. He attended the local comprehensive, Hillcrest Community School. He was thirteen and his listed carer was an uncle, name of... she shifted through the papers, scanning them... Gregor Masterton. Living with a relative meant social services had not been involved so far. If it hadn’t been for the phone call they wouldn’t be involved now, but looking at the house, Abbey thought that this might be one life she could make a difference to.
Her eyes flicked to the mirror and she saw a boy approaching. It was too early for school to b
e finished but he was dressed in a school uniform, kind of. She watched him in the mirror and saw the tattered state of his clothes. His thick hair looked like it was matted in places, sticking up and out in all directions. It needed a wash and a cut and a brush. His face glared at the world around him, dark and threatening.
She knew this was her boy straight away. She knew she could make a difference.
She realised he was looking into her car, into the mirror, into her eyes and she looked away.
He was getting closer and her nerves were starting to jangle. She was preparing herself, chanting her mantra. Help who you can, grow a thick skin, help who you can. Then he walked straight past the gate that led to the house she was waiting outside. He walked past it and kept walking.
Perhaps he wasn’t her boy, Maximilian, after all. She had been so confident; she had thought she was starting to get to grips with the job, with the clues.
Abbey felt deflated. She had got it wrong. Again.
But then he looked back. Only once. Looked back over his shoulder, at her. To see if she was there for him, she realised. He was cautious of strangers. That was a sign of... a sign of... she didn’t know. But it was surely a sign of something.
The boy was Maximilian and he was worried.
Why would he be worried? What was going on here? Why wouldn’t he go home when there was a stranger waiting?
Abbey’s heart thumped as she considered the possibilities. A single word leapt to her mind. Could it be? Or was she leaping to wild conclusions? But he was walking away now, disappearing around the corner. Maximilian was escaping her. He was eager to escape her. Why? And the single word thumped out again.
Abuse.
Could it be?
She turned the key in the ignition and gunned the car too hard. It lurched out into the road and she realised she hadn’t checked the mirror. She checked too late and saw nothing behind her, nothing but the small children rolling on the floor. She accelerated recklessly around the corner and could see Maximilian. She plunged her foot onto the accelerator. She needed to know why he was trying to escape her.
Help who you can, help who you can.
She was next to the boy when she pulled down on the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes. The car rode up the kerb, leaving little black tracks of rubber and jolting her off her seat. It actually came quite close to the boy and she was suddenly nervous. What if it wasn’t him and she was almost running over children? What would Marianne say? But she knew it was him. It had to be.
She opened the door and was out before he could turn and run away.
She had it wrong she saw when she looked at him. Not about who he was. This was definitely Maximilian O’Connell. She was certain now. But she was wrong about the running away. He was unmoved by the narrow miss with the car, not afraid of her, and he was not about to run away.
He watched her coolly as she tried to think of the right words.
Her smile was genuine. It was a disarming smile and she knew she was an attractive woman. That should help. She turned up the smile, “Maximilian?” She held out her hand, waiting for a response.
The boy didn’t smile, his dark face seemed etched into a saturnine grim expression.
She held her smile, didn’t let it waver. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Maximilian. I’ve been waiting for some time.” She needed to move fast, establish trust, repeat his name again, she thought to herself. It was a proven way to establish trust. She looked at him. Maximilian was unlikely to be his preferred name. “Max, my name is Abbey Singer and I work for Social Services. We have had a report that you might be living alone at 37 Gladstone Road, well, at your home. You know where you live don’t you?” She looked for some response. “We’ve had a report that you might be living alone at your home, Max, and we were just a little worried about you.” She smiled. Trust me, Max, said her smile, you can trust me.
Max’s face twitched a little, “You’re worried? About me?”
Was there disbelief in his voice? Victims of abuse often had self esteem issues. He might well find it difficult to believe that anyone could care about him. He might find it difficult to care for himself. “Yes, Max,” Abbey said, her composed face no longer smiling, but serious, honest. “We are worried about you. We would be worried about any thirteen year old left to fend for themselves.” She glanced casually over his body while she talked – he was big for thirteen, almost fourteen, he looked strong, but his uniform looked unwashed, ill fitting – there were bruises on his face – marks that showed past violence. All warning signs. She had been right! “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Max. I’m here to help you.”
The boy’s face twitched again, “You want to help me?”
“Yes, Max. I’m here to help you.”
The boy was staring at her. His eyes were hard like stones, his face seemed slightly mocking. He was giving nothing away.
She understood. He was trying to push her away. He thought he was trapped. That there was no way out. It was very common. Victims of abuse often lacked any kind of confidence and rebuilding their shattered lives all started with those small steps, building bridges, building trust.
She repeated her last sentence. She was going nowhere. She was growing a thick skin. He wouldn’t push her away. “Max, I am here to help you. I can help you. That’s my job.” She led the conversation a little, guiding him to admit what she believed she already knew, “It must be hard living on your own, Max.”
Max raised an eyebrow.
She tried again, “You must be very self reliant. How do you manage things like food?”
The boy stared at her momentarily and slowly, as though speaking to an idiot, said, “I kind of chew it, and then I swallow it, and that kinda seems to work for me.”
He was trying to push her away again. Sarcasm was a defence mechanism. “Max, how often do you see your uncle?”
“My what?” The boy looked surprised, his glare took on a greater intensity. “Who are you talking about?”
His reaction was very interesting. Mentioning his uncle clearly made him very uncomfortable. Abbey pushed a little further, “Your uncle, Gregor Masterton. How often do you see him?”
Nothing was said, but she watched his reaction. There was a surprising shift in the boy’s body language that revealed great emotions beneath.
How interesting, Abbey thought. Very revealing. She pushed carefully for more, “He is your primary carer, isn’t he? You don’t have any family listed other than this...” she wrinkled her nose to show her sympathy for the boy’s dislike of his relative, “uncle.” She glanced into his furrowed face and innocently asked, “Do you have other family?”
The boy looked at her. His face was stone. She knew she was stirring some deep emotions, but couldn’t tell what. Yet. She knew she shouldn’t threaten the boy, but she couldn’t help herself. And it wasn’t really a threat, not really, not if everything was as it should be. She had been right so far and knew there was more. She continued to push. “Perhaps I should talk to Mr Masterton about this. I’m sure he will be able to explain what is going on here. When will Mr Masterton return?” She looked at him and her smile was bright but not so warm now. “Or should I say visit?”
The boy’s granite face revealed nothing. He shook his head and seemed to consider her carefully. “Listen, you have a big soft heart. I like that. I like people like you, kind people. You’re a nice person. You’re trying to help. I get that.” He looked into her eyes and his eyes sparkled with depth and honesty. She felt as though there was nothing else in the world but the sparkling depths of his eyes. They were wild, like mountain streams. “But if you go to that man to ask questions you won’t help. You won’t help me and you won’t help yourself. Please don’t.” He looked like he was going to say more, “Just... don’t.”
She looked into his eyes, building bridges, “I can help you, Max.”
The boy shook his head. He stepped back away from her, turned and started to run.
She sighed, even
giving such an eloquent little speech, he was after all only thirteen. She watched him run swiftly into the distance and believed that he was afraid. She believed that she could help him.
She was also certain that she needed to talk to Mr Masterton.
Fifteen: Hamsters and Pentagrams
We can search for the demon that took your mother, Gregor had said.
And now, at Gregor’s private invitation – just the two of us will be best, what – they were. Tristan had been filled with emotions. The idea of a hunt had thrilled him. The idea of finding his mother’s killer made his blood surge. Doing something, taking revenge, confronting a demon, seeing more, there was a danger and excitement to the whole thing that, once you accepted that there were monsters, gave both a purpose and a huge buzz. It was not without the sour tinge of fear at hunting a demon. The demon from his dreams was a flickering shadow, a wraith and who knew what it could do? There was some fear at being alone with Gregor – he had seen what the old man could do – but that also gave a sense of comfort. Gregor had explained the killing of Joshua. Gregor also had power. Tristan was relying on Gregor. Gregor was versed in secret knowledge. He might be old and smelly but the man had power and Tristan was relying upon him, completely. The fear made the whole thing more real. This was serious. And all of these emotions mixed in with the yawning sense of loss, the grief for his mother. He didn’t think about her. He focused on the demon. The fear and grief mingled in the background and he thought of the thing to blame, the thing he would soon take revenge upon.
It was a strange hunt.
They were in the library, Gregor’s stronghold. They were going nowhere. They weren’t ‘hunting’, not as Tristan thought of it. He was sitting, watching Gregor. He had been sitting watching Gregor for what felt like hours. The old man was wearing a dark blue black cloak that he explained as his ceremonial attire. The slippers looked strange poking out from the hooded cloak. Tristan felt like a spare part. He knew he would be relying on Gregor, but he wasn’t doing anything. He sat and looked around the library for the millionth time. Over in the corner were what looked like decorators sheets, large polythene rolls of see through plastic. Tristan glanced at them again and wondered. What had really made him wonder though, what had struck him as truly out of place was a bright little cage, the kind you might find in a young kid’s bedroom. He had seen a guinea-pig or hamster running about inside it. The clock ticked, the animal rustled and chittered in its cage and Gregor shuffled. The animal was asleep now. The thoughts of what and why baffled Tristan for the first hour. Then he had started texting Stephanie. She texted back straight away and that was far more entertaining, but Gregor had snapped at him, saying something about the importance of concentration and if he had better things to do than hunt the demon that killed his mother he had better go and do it.