Читать книгу The Throwaway Boy - Alix Chapel - Страница 21

‘Oi, you! Stop!’ the policeman shouted.

‘Piss off. You’ll never catch me, ya fat bastard!’ Billy yelled back. He ran until his chest burned and his legs felt heavy. He was proud that he could always outrun the coppers.

As a designated delinquent, Billy figured he might as well act like one. He had been branded as such for so many years he believed that was all he could be. He was constantly in trouble and had soon turned into a self-proclaimed ‘hard boy’. He even pretended to be proud of that image. The grudge he was carrying around was getting bigger and bigger as time went by. The events of the past years had almost succeeded in generating a non-existent faith, but not entirely. Somewhere, deep inside his psyche, Billy had a grain of self-preservation. A little something that gave him an inner strength. Billy didn’t know it was there and certainly no one else paid close enough attention to realise anything at all about the real Billy. To them, he was just a bad lad, but it was there all the same.

He had incredible courage, but, if anyone had suggested such a thing, he wouldn’t have believed them. He wasn’t used to compliments, having never received any; either that, or he would have thought that being courageous was something bad.

By the time he was thirteen, he was consumed with feelings of hopelessness. He tried desperately to marshal his unruly emotions back into line, if, in his chaotic short life, they ever were truly in line – but he couldn’t. He found the situation in the homes added to this. He felt sure that was just how life was going to be for him and had become resigned to the fact that nobody would ever hear his desperate cries for help. He saw no way out and, somewhere along the line, had stopped hoping. He convinced himself he didn’t care about anyone or anything. His yearning had been replaced with despondency. There was still, and probably always would be, a deep-rooted vulnerability, but his behaviour and antics made it hard for anybody to recognise it, even though they should have.

He was filled with anger and still vented his feelings inappropriately, as he had done ever since he was first taken into care, but his behaviour was becoming more and more destructive. He was spiralling out of control and no one seemed to care – least of all Billy.

The desire to abscond was just as high on his priority list as it had been right from the start but, over the years, it had taken on the form of a sort of game – albeit, to Billy, it was about survival. He took pride in outsmarting the people in charge and thrived on out-running the police or anyone else who attempted to chase him. A lot of the time, he ran away to get away from the situation in the homes; at other times, he ran away because he missed his family. Sometimes, it was just something he could have control over.

He was sent to a number of different children’s homes in an effort to put an end to his running away, but it never occurred to anybody to figure out why he was running away. Eventually, he was sent to an approved school but he continued to get into trouble. He knew that this development was a step up to the big league. He had heard boys bragging about lads they knew, or their older siblings, who had been sent to such a place, as if it was an achievement, or something to be proud of. Billy didn’t have such a misguided view. His misbehaviour wasn’t a conscious thing – nor was he being naughty for the sake of appearing ‘cool’ among his peers. He was just in trouble – as much in his being as in his actions.

Billy didn’t think much about where he might end up if he continued to break the rules – he didn’t think much about anything. He was in survival mode, full stop – it was as simple as that. It was just unfortunate that what he was doing as a means of survival was continuing to get him into trouble.

Billy didn’t think it was cool to get sent to approved school, although he might have given that impression to the other children. He actually was very scared and apprehensive. Most of the time, he was relieved to be moved on, but it was also very scary, as he didn’t know where he’d be sent. He had had so many bad experiences that he had given up hope that the next place would be any better. Mostly, it was a case of ‘better the devil you know’.

He didn’t mix well with other children as a rule. He tended to get bullied quite a lot, probably due to the fact that he was always so withdrawn. He did want to fit in, though, so he kept himself to himself during the first few weeks, watching the other boys and figuring out what he needed to do, or not do, in order to avoid attention. He liked it best when he could just blend into the woodwork, under everyone’s radar. If the other boys didn’t pay him any attention, positive or negative, that was an added bonus. The main thing was to do whatever he could to ensure that he wasn’t noticed by any of the adults. He wasn’t usually naughty in the first few weeks at a new place; he was trying so hard not to stand out, anxious to not draw attention to himself, that he daren’t put a foot out of line.

The very first thing he did when he got to yet another home was to negotiate an escape route. In the beginning, it had been quite easy getting away, sometimes simply walking out through the front door but, over the years, his reputation preceded him, forcing him to come up with elaborate plans that were fast becoming feats of ingenuity of which Houdini would have been proud. He was so agile and nimble and could manoeuvre and squeeze himself through such tiny, awkward openings that often his escapes needed to be seen to be believed.

He started to notice, after a while, that the boys who seemed the most confident, the ones who were bullish and vocalised their grievances, were often the ones who didn’t seem to attract the attention from the adults – at least, not the kind of attention that he was trying to avoid. Yes, they got into trouble but that didn’t worry Billy, he could handle the telling off, the verbal abuse and even the caning. These boys could often be heard taunting other children, sometimes even the adults, or slinging complaints around – ‘I’m not eating that crap’ or ‘This tastes like shite’. Every home had them. They were the ones who talked at night after lights out but they were never the ones to get taken from their beds at night.

It was strange – Billy never did anything wrong in those days, but he was always the one to get punished in that terrible way. He couldn’t help but feel he must have deserved it, but he couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong. He felt the only thing he could do was to start behaving like those other boys. Maybe being quiet and trying to remain unnoticed was the very thing that was making him more of a target?

He couldn’t work out why, but he just knew that the loud-mouthed lads didn’t have the trouble he did. Part of him still believed it was his fault that bad things always seemed to happen to him but, after a while, when running away didn’t get him anywhere, he decided that he may as well give up on his ‘blending-in’ strategy.

That new approach – going against his natural instinct and becoming bolder – coincided with his first placement at an approved school. It certainly hadn’t been easy at all, especially being somewhere different, but he adapted, as he always did, when faced with something new. In many ways, that new behaviour benefited Billy. The other kids didn’t bully him and, best of all, he didn’t have to endure anything untoward, at least not in the way that he had before. He became a little bit more confident – just enough to make a difference. He was, for the first time, mixing with the other boys and was proud to be accepted by the tough lads. He was still escaping, although probably more out of habit than necessity at that point, and often would not actually run away but, instead, sneak back in after roaming around for a few hours.

Those escapades always happened during the night. Billy was a poor sleeper and had been for quite a few years. This was partly due to his being a worrier, lying in bed, in the dark, when his mind would refuse to shut off. But mostly it was because of a pattern he had got into, a pattern bred from the nightmare of his years in care. A pattern bred from never feeling safe.

He would often seek out companions on those nocturnal outings, although not of the human sort. Ever since he had first realised that the animals made him feel special and loved, he had looked forward to seeing them. He’d slip into farmyards where the only ones awake were the animals. Amazingly, the dogs wouldn’t bark; instead, they would approach him and, although some were initially a bit wary, they all ended up wagging their tails and allowing him to make a fuss of them. It was with these straightforward, undemanding creatures that Billy learned about love and trust – and where his natural, gentle manner had a chance to flourish. How incredibly touching, yet ironic, that he developed these human emotions from animals and how amazing that the human spirit can manifest situations that not only give it what it needs but also give it a chance to express its own abilities. Billy would often creep into the barns, especially in the winter when he was desperate to keep warm, and curl up in the hay, often nodding off and then waking to find lambs, calves, cats or dogs nestled beside him.

The only drawback with that new plan was that, by hanging about with the naughty boys, he was slowly introduced to more dubious pastimes. Before long, he was mixed up in activities that ensured he lived up to everyone’s expectations. They were also illegal.

For quite some time, he had been getting away with criminal activity – stealing motorcycles or cars and joyriding through the lanes. Not getting caught fuelled the bravado and he thought he had it all figured out. He was still getting into trouble and being sent to the dreaded, cold, dark place, where the naughtiest boys would be locked in solitary confinement, but he didn’t mind such punishment; he knew that on those occasions he had deserved it and, in a strange way, he felt he was in control.

It didn’t last long, though; inevitably, he was caught stealing a car and was sent to a detention centre. One of the biggest differences there was that it was a secure and locked institution. If he had thought that being sent to approved school was a step up to the big league, then the detention centre was an entire staircase.

* * *

‘Are we friends again?’ I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Billy had been quiet for ages. I knew he was miles away, back to a time of bad memories. I knew the signs. Billy was beginning to realise that he hadn’t forgotten his past. Not really. His memory wasn’t failing him, he had just been protected from remembering. Things were coming back and he knew enough to know that that wasn’t a good thing.

‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ Billy asked, by way of an apology, as he pulled into a gas station.

‘Yeah, I do. Shall I run in and get some?’ I answered light-heartedly, by way of saying, ‘Apology accepted.’

‘I could kill for a proper cup of tea but, as Americans can’t do tea, I guess a coffee will have to do,’ he joked.

I jumped out of the 4Runner and ran into the shop as Billy filled up on gas. While I was waiting to pay, I watched Billy through the window. He had finished filling up and was washing all the baked-on dead bugs off the windscreen. At the next pump, a motorcycle pulled up. A leather-clad Hell’s Angel type got off the bike and proceeded to fill up. He was a big, burly man. His black, sleeveless leather vest allowed full view of his tattooed arms. Even from a distance, I could see a silver earring peeking out from just under his skullcap.

I looked on in amazement, as Billy appeared to be speaking to him. Sure enough, a smile appeared on the biker’s face, totally transforming it. They continued talking. To a passer-by, they would have seemed to be well acquainted, albeit mismatched – Billy in his Gap T-shirt, Roots shorts and Nike flip-flops, and the biker in his leathers. As I walked towards them, they were saying their goodbyes with their right hands raised up to shoulder height in a buddy-like clench, patting each other on the upper arm with their left hands.

‘Take care, mate,’ I heard Billy say.

‘Yeah, you, too, man. Catch ya later,’ the biker replied as he walked off to pay for his gas.

As I handed Billy his coffee, I jokingly asked, ‘Who’s your home-boy?’

‘He’s a nice bloke. I was admiring his bike and we got talking… What’s so funny?’ he asked when I continued to grin.

‘Nothing, love… you are just so cute. I would never have even looked at him, let alone spoken to him. He looked totally scary.’

‘You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Alix,’ Billy added reprovingly.

‘What? Look who’s talking! What about that policeman? You judged him just based on his uniform,’ I countered.

‘Coppers are different,’ he snapped.

‘Yeah, whatever. Shall I put a CD on?’ I asked, hoping to change the subject.

‘Do what you wanna do,’ he answered moodily.

Within minutes, Billy was singing along to the song, his mood already forgotten. My mind wandered as I looked out at the passing scenery.

* * *