Читать книгу Nowhere to Go: The heartbreaking true story of a boy desperate to be loved - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 10

The next couple of days were spent establishing ground rules. Though we weren’t planning on starting Tyler on the behaviour management programme till the following Monday, we still needed to put some basic boundaries in place about what was and what wasn’t acceptable. After all, we knew virtually nothing about him – and what we did know didn’t put him in the best light, all told, since it mostly involved a knife and a school exclusion.

And the need for boundaries became clear before John had even left us; while he was still being kind, and helping bring his young charge’s things in, in fact.

‘Careful, you dickhead!’ he’d yelled at John, when the football annual he’d had wedged under his arm had accidentally fallen on the grass. He’d followed that gem up with an equally friendly explanation that ‘My mate Cameron nicked that for me!’

While John had chastised Tyler for his language – not to mention his ingratitude – I made a mental note of the name Cameron, for future reference.

I would soon learn who Cameron was, in any case, as Tyler’s response was to whine that it was the only thing he had to remind him of his best friend, upon which John (who obviously already knew) pointed out that, as Cameron only lived five minutes away from where we did, it was hardly as if they were at opposite ends of the world.

I took all this in as well, filing it in my brain automatically. And I was soon to learn more. Cameron, it seemed, was both Tyler’s friend and his hero – he talked about him so much that it soon became obvious that he was perhaps the most important role-model in his life. Though not necessarily of the positive kind – he was a 15-year-old boy Tyler had known since he’d moved in with his dad. And, from what I could glean, he was a bit of a neglected, latchkey kid – the only child of a single mum who was out all the time (for what reason Tyler knew not, but apparently not work), leaving her son to roam the estate where they lived. From what Tyler told me – of how he sofa-surfed, cadged rides and went to friends’ houses for food – I was surprised to learn that, as far as Tyler knew, anyway, he’d never been taken into care himself.

But it was the child in our care who preoccupied me most, not least because, despite Kieron’s confidence, given Tyler’s home background, he’d come with so little to call his own. He didn’t even have a case or holdall – just a green recycling bag filled with clothing, and a cardboard box full of old games and toys. There was the precious annual (separate only because he’d apparently been reading it on the journey), some tatty Marvel comics and figurines, a well-worn football and a torn photograph – of him as a baby, he said – that had been taped back together, plus, of course, the ubiquitous mobile phone. Needless to say, it didn’t take much time to find a place for everything, so it wasn’t long – after a longer tour around the house and garden – before we got our second taste of Tyler’s short temper.

We’d finally got him to remove his hoodie, at least, and I think that was only because it was such a warm day, and he had wandered into the front room to watch some TV, while I got started cooking our tea. I was making sausages and mash – a family favourite – and had just finished peeling the potatoes when I heard the commotion from the living room. Taking off my apron and drying my hands, I walked through to see what was going on. Tyler was standing by the window, clutching the remote control, his face angry and contorted. Mike was on his feet too, and was holding out his hand.

‘Just pass it back to me, Tyler,’ he was saying. ‘It’s a simple enough request. We don’t speak to each other like that in this house.’

‘And I said fuck off!’ Tyler yelled, glaring at poor Mike. ‘All I wanted to do was see if my cartoons were on. And that’s a simple enough ’quest an’ all!’

‘Tyler, you didn’t make a request,’ Mike answered levelly. ‘You just took the remote from beside me and changed the channel, without saying anything. I was watching something – which you could see – but I would have happily turned it over if you’d asked me.’

I went to join Mike. ‘Tyler, give Mike the remote back, please,’ I asked him nicely. ‘It’s almost tea time so there’s no time for cartoons just yet anyway, and, like Mike said, we won’t have that kind of language in this house.’

Tyler switched his glare to me then, and threw the remote onto the sofa, just missing Mike as it landed. ‘I knew this place would be shit!’ he said with a harsh and scornful laugh. ‘I won’t stay,’ he said. ‘I told that John. I’m not going to stay in this shit-hole!’ He then marched across the room, swerving past us.

I’d have probably let him go, but Mike stepped out to stop him. ‘Not so fast, young man,’ he said. ‘We’re not done here.’

‘Could you move, please?’ Tyler asked him.

‘In a moment,’ Mike replied. ‘But first of all you need to know this, Tyler. It doesn’t matter where you come from or what it is you are accustomed to, but we are the adults here, okay? We are entrusted to show you the ropes and look after you properly. And that includes teaching you about good manners and how to treat others. I’m going to let this go just now because it’s your first day here and it’s bound to be strange for you. But I’m telling you now that we don’t tolerate this kind of behaviour. Now go on, either go up to your room or go and play in the garden. Tea will be ready when Casey calls you, okay? It’s up to you if you’re hungry or not.’

I watched, open-mouthed, as Mike then stepped aside to let Tyler pass. Which he did, keeping it zipped as he stomped up the stairs. Mike stared after him, his expression one of intense irritation, as if he’d just hit the point when it all came flooding back – just what fostering a kid like this was actually going to entail. ‘Wow,’ I said, once I knew Tyler was safely out of earshot. ‘That was impressive. Like riding a bike, eh? Or did you have that rehearsed?’

He shook his head, and sat back down on the sofa. ‘Didn’t need to,’ he said, picking up the remote from where Tyler had flung it. ‘You know, I actually even had my hand on this when he took it. Just marched up, pulled it from under my hand, and turned the telly over without so much as a bloody word! If he’d said anything at all – anything – I’d have given him the bloody thing without a second thought. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be spoken to like that for nothing!’

Mike was talking as if he felt he needed to justify giving Tyler a dressing down, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. He’d dealt with him brilliantly, without raising his voice, or showing anger – just using quiet but firm authority. Yet I could see he was rattled about it, and that rattled me. It had been a long time since we’d had a child in, and an even longer time since we’d had a boy – well, if you didn’t count the babies – because our last had been a teenage girl. It had been an even longer time since we’d had a boy of Tyler’s age and level of anger, and I wondered if it wasn’t hitting home to Mike, even as he sat there, just how much of the boundary-maintenance would naturally fall to him.

‘Come help me sort the tea out?’ I asked him, even though I didn’t actually need any. ‘Fingers crossed the message has hit home, and he’ll be down for his tea, and we can start again on a more positive note. It’ll sink in,’ I added, as he rose to join me, his expression still very much one that said, What have we got ourselves into here? ‘You know how it goes, love,’ I reassured him. ‘Sooner or later it will.’

Mike sighed heavily as he followed me through to the kitchen. ‘Let’s hope it’s sooner then, eh?’ he said, as he began gathering up the potato peelings. ‘At least I can escape to work, love. You don’t have that luxury.’ He picked up the vegetable knife, and I knew exactly what he was thinking as he studied it. ‘You might have to be braced for this sort of thing every day.’

That little incident, minor though it was, set a tone that lasted into the weekend. Tyler, perhaps understandably, didn’t want to be with us. Which was not to say he wanted to be home – not with the ‘witch’ living there, anyway – but it didn’t make him any keener on making friends with us. He’d come down to tea and seemed to enjoy it – albeit in a dogged silence – but he seemed entirely resistant to the idea of my hastily penned ‘house rules’. I’d run them up that Thursday evening, as a taster of what was coming on the Monday, including such staples as no swearing, respect others in the house, bed at 8.00 p.m., lights out at 9.00 p.m.

All of them were broken within a day. And were broken several times over by the end of the following week, so by the time the next Saturday rolled around it was less a question of what rules he’d broken than casting about to find one he hadn’t. Worse than that, on that Saturday – after I’d had to tell Tyler off about his bad language for what felt like the tenth time that day – Kieron called in to see us after his morning football session. He couldn’t have chosen a more inopportune time.

‘Afternoon!’ I heard him call through the house. I was sorting the washing out in the back porch and hurried back inside. Tyler was in the living room, and this would be the first time they encountered one another. And it was a relationship I was hoping to nurture.

‘Oh hi, love,’ I said as I saw Tyler, who was sprawled across the sofa, eyeing up Kieron with curiosity. ‘Good game? This is Tyler,’ I added. ‘He’s into football, too, aren’t you, Tyler?’

‘Nice one,’ said Kieron. ‘Good to meet you at last, mate. What team do you support?’

Tyler looked like he might answer, but then his face changed and he shrugged. He then turned his attention back to the TV in what was unquestionably a deliberate snub. I bridled. Kieron might be 25, and he might not give a damn about the opinion of this arsey 11-year-old stranger, but I felt affronted and angry on his behalf. I knew it wouldn’t bother him that much, but I also knew the way my son’s mind worked – he found rudeness of any kind particularly difficult to process. Yes, he was better than he’d been as a child – the world of work had toughened him up a bit in that regard – but that was work and this was home (his family home, even if he no longer lived with us) and he shouldn’t have to put up with some little tyke being rude to him within it.

‘Tyler,’ I said pointedly, ‘Kieron was asking you a question, love. He asked you which team you supported.’

I waited, hoping to force him into continuing the conversation. I soon wished I hadn’t.

‘And I heard him!’ he snapped back, quick as you like. ‘And I told him I don’t know!’

He launched himself off the sofa, then, and for a moment I thought he was going to run at me and rugby tackle me, but instead he headed straight for Kieron and the open door. ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you people just leave me alone?’

‘Hey!’ Kieron barked. ‘Less of the lip. You don’t talk to my mum like that, Tyler, do you hear?’

Tyler ignored him, barging past him and stomping out of the living room, slamming the door behind him for good measure.

‘What the hell?’ Kieron said, shaking his head. ‘Was it something I said?’

I squeezed his arm. ‘No, love,’ I said. ‘He’s been like this since he got here. Take no notice. He’s on his last gasp, in any case. Me and your dad are giving him the weekend to settle down a bit and then we’ll start to work on that God-awful behaviour of his. You know what it’s like,’ I added, picking up the remote and silencing the din from the TV. ‘He’s come from a really bad place, love. And he’s currently “adjusting”.’

Kieron grinned. ‘Mum, all the kids you have come from a bad place. He’s just – did you hear that? Was that the front door I just heard go?’

I sighed heavily. He wasn’t planning on doing a runner, was he? Now, that would be a great start. I ran to the front window. ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ I said. ‘He’s just taken his football out into the front garden. Maybe he’s going to have a kick-about to calm himself down.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Kieron answered wryly. ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t decided to try take it out on the house.’

No sooner had Kieron said that than I was reminded of one of my mum’s famous sayings: Many a true word is spoken in jest.

The sudden thud was almighty. ‘Jesus! He bloody is!’ I said in amazement, watching his antics. ‘He’s purposely kicking the ball at the front door!’

And hard, too. Kieron joined me at the window just as the second ‘hit’ landed. This time, however, it wasn’t the door we heard rattle. It was the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. ‘What the …?’ Kieron spluttered, before rushing out into the hall. I followed him, desperately hoping that it had been an unfortunate accident, but knowing, without a doubt, that it was not.

‘Kieron!’ I said, as he yanked the front door open, ‘just stay calm, love. Let’s see what he has to say for himself first.’ Too late.

‘I saw that!’ Kieron shouted at Tyler, as I surveyed the puddle of broken glass shards that had rained down from the side panel of my front door. ‘You kicked that ball at that pane of glass on purpose!’

‘Did I fuck!’ Tyler responded. ‘You want your eyes testing! God,’ he added, stabbing a tightly balled fist into each hip, ‘see what I mean? I get the blame for everything in this shit-hole!’

Kieron skewered him on the end of a premier-league scowl and hoicked a thumb behind him. ‘Get inside right now!’ he said. ‘And don’t think I won’t pick you up and bring you in,’ he added.

At which point I decided to intervene. I didn’t want the neighbours’ curtains twitching at my latest drama, but nor did I want Tyler antagonising my son. ‘There’ll be no need to do that, love,’ I said quietly to Kieron. ‘Tyler, get in here, now! I mean it.’

But if I thought my own brand of hard talking would do the trick, I was wrong. ‘Fuck off, you fat bitch!’ he yelled back, leaving me stunned. Fat? I knew I’d put on a few pounds in the last year or so (sympathy eating for two and spending too much time with hungry grandsons), but at just under ten stone I preferred to think I was pleasantly plump – at the very worst. Cheeky little sod! But I barely had time to reply when my son barged past me and made a grab for him. ‘In here! Now!’ he said, gripping Tyler firmly by his right shoulder, clearly offended by the weight-slur on my behalf. And if that surprised me, I was totally gobsmacked by what happened next. The 11-year-old whirlwind whirled and, despite the difference in their heights, managed to land a punch that hit Kieron firmly on the chin. Clearly taken aback, Kieron nevertheless held on while Tyler tried to capitalise on his advantage by kicking him in the shins. If it wasn’t so horrifying it would have been comical. Kieron, my six foot three beanpole of a son, was skipping around, trying to fend off kicks, punches and bites, while this little scrap of a kid gave it everything he had. And not just physically – he was giving his all vocally as well, turning the air blue with his colourful language.

‘Get off me, you shitty bastard!’ he screamed as Kieron held on. ‘Get your fucking hands off me, you cunt!’

I was mesmerised, I think, but thoughts of the neighbours again roused me, and I plunged in to try and separate them without delay. ‘Tyler!’ I yelled as I grabbed him by the hoodie. ‘Stop that right now and get inside, you hear me?’

It took some tugging but I eventually managed to get him away and pin both his arms to his sides. I leaned in then, and spoke quietly, close to his face. ‘I swear, Tyler,’ I hissed. ‘I won’t be telling you this again. Get in that house and go to your room. This is your last chance.’

I meant it too. Right then, I did, anyway. We’d had him a scant week and a bit, and, though it was entirely out of character, I could easily see myself calling John and telling him we’d changed our minds. It was so unlike me, but, when I considered it (coolly, as Tyler stood there and scowled at me) I realised that he hadn’t done a single tiny thing that would let me warm to him.

Not that I expected him to do that consciously, of course I didn’t. But with almost every kid I’d ever dealt with, I could see past that. See the tiniest chink of something through their spiky, gnarly armour, sense the pain and the need for love in their bruised souls.

And it was then – at that very moment – that finally I thought I glimpsed it. It was only fleeting; so swift that I could easily have missed it. But as he struggled from my grasp, it crossed his face. It was so subtle; just the tiniest jut of his chin, but I could read it. It said, Go on, then. Hate me. I’ve given you enough ammo now, haven’t I? It was enough – just – to remind me that he was like this for a reason. I let him go then, and he thundered up the stairs.

I was shaking a little as I followed him back inside – I was clearly unused to the adrenalin rush. ‘Oh, Kieron,’ I said, as he bent down to start picking up the larger glass shards, ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. I just can’t believe it,’ I called back, running into the kitchen to get the dustpan. ‘I really can’t, honestly. Are you okay, love?’

Kieron surprised me then, by shrugging it off, and even smiling at me. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Mum, you forget. I deal with little tykes like that every flipping day.’

Which couldn’t be true – either that, or his school had serious discipline issues – but it was still a reminder that my little boy wasn’t a little boy any more and no longer quite as vulnerable.

‘I know you do,’ I said anyway, ‘but you don’t need that sort of thing when you’re here, do you?’

He took the dustpan. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Probably did him good. I think he at least has my measure now, don’t you?’

I looked at the broken window pane. How much was that going to cost to replace? One thing was for sure – this boy needed some swift and serious input. So come Monday, I thought grimly as we cleared the last of the glass, he’s going to have my bloody measure, too.