Читать книгу Too Hurt to Stay: The True Story of a Troubled Boy’s Desperate Search for a Loving Home - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 10

Chapter 5

‘Right,’ said Mike, his expression grim. ‘This needs tackling right now.’

He laid the picture on the bed and we both trooped back down the stairs. At the bottom of them Jackson was now dozing peacefully in his push chair, but Riley had followed Spencer into the living room, Levi close behind her.

‘He’s behind the sofa,’ she told Mike. ‘Curled up in a ball. I’ve tried talking to him but he’s not saying anything. I take it he did have my purse then?’ she asked, turning to me. ‘Whoah!’ she exclaimed then, seeing the haul in my hands. ‘My purse and then some.’

‘Come on, young man,’ Mike said, sternly pulling the sofa out a little. ‘Out from there, please. We need an explanation for this, mate. You can’t just go taking things that don’t belong to you.’

But Spencer had no intention of coming out, it seemed. In response to Mike’s words he just made himself even smaller, hands over his ears, head pressed into his knees, rocking back and forth as if trying to block the world out. A not untypical reaction from a boy of his age, I mused. Not when they’ve been caught red handed.

‘Come on, love,’ I coaxed. ‘We just need to talk about it, that’s all. You don’t need to take things, love. If there’s something you want, you only need to ask.’

I got glared at for this by both my husband and my daughter. I could even hear Riley’s unspoken words: you want my purse and all the money in it? Yeah, of course, mate!

But I felt a softer approach would be the only one that would work here. ‘Spencer,’ I said. ‘You can’t stay here for ever, love, now, can you? Hiding away’s not going to help. We need to discuss this.’

Riley’s phone chimed. ‘That’s David,’ she huffed. ‘He must be outside. I have to go. Dad, can you help me with the kids, please? Leave Mum to deal with the Artful Dodger here, shall we?’

I almost smiled, but not quite. The image of that hole in one of my bedroom walls stopped me. But Spencer did look a little like he might have been recruited by Fagin. What with his mop of silky hair and his butter-wouldn’t-melt looks. And a rather forlorn sight, right now – very Dickensian – as he trembled and cowed behind the sofa.

But I was wrong to be fooled by such superficial details.

‘Come on, love,’ I began, while Mike went out to help Riley transfer Jackson into his car seat, and stow the push chair in the boot of David’s car. ‘Come out and let’s sit down and talk about this, eh?’

But I barely had time to finish what I was saying, because Spencer, apparently having decided the coast was clear – well, of Mike, anyway – was up out of his hidey hole and barging right past me. ‘Fuck off!’ he yelled. ‘I’m off to bed and don’t no one dare come up. I hate you all!’ And there he was, gone.

Ah, I thought, as I watched him go. And so the fun begins. The real work, I knew, was about to start.

In the end, I decided to let Mike deal with him. Already he seemed to be a boy who responded to male authority, so Mike’s suggestion – that Spencer would be more likely to realise how serious this was if the dressing down came from him – seemed a good one.

It was a full 20 minutes before Mike was back downstairs. ‘Well, I don’t know if it’s done any good,’ he said, ‘but he did apologise.’

‘And did he say why he’d done it?’

Mike shook his head. ‘Just sat and listened to me, mostly,’ he answered. ‘Then said sorry, and that it wouldn’t happen again. I did ask why he’d done it – that he must have known it was wrong – but he had no answer. Just said he didn’t know.’

‘Is he coming down for tea, then?’ I asked, beginning to dish out the bolognaise that I’d finished preparing while Mike had been upstairs.

‘On his way. I just told him to wash his face and hands and come straight down. Oh, and I did tell him that he wouldn’t be getting all his behaviour points today, so no TV or DS tomorrow. He seemed to accept that.’

It seemed Mike was right. Spencer was quiet and a bit sullen looking as he sat and ate his tea, but I was at least pleased to see he looked chastened. And after tea, when he went back upstairs to play with his toy dinosaurs, we both agreed that, however destructive the hole-making and the stealing, it at least gave us a chance to see what we were dealing with, and a benchmark from which to improve.

But the sense of contrition wasn’t destined to last long. At around nine, when Spencer came down for a drink and a biscuit, I decided I’d take the opportunity to have a quick run through his points with him, just so he knew how things stood. This was important. The whole point and reward system was new to him, and almost as important as the business of actually earning them was that the child make the connection between actions and consequences; that was the foundation on which the whole model was based.

At first, as I explained about the deficit and its consequences for privileges tomorrow, he seemed resigned and accepting. ‘That’s okay,’ he said meekly. ‘I know there’ll be no TV time tomorrow.’

‘And I’ll also have to ground you. You do know that, too, don’t you? So there’ll be no playing out for the next few days.’

Though I’d mentioned it, I’d assumed this would be inconsequential – Spencer hadn’t once yet asked to go out to play. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. He almost harrumphed. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I thought my punishment was no TV?’

‘No, love. It’s not your punishment. It’s that you can’t afford to buy it. You can’t afford to buy TV time because you won’t have enough points. If you did, then you’d still be able to buy TV time, wouldn’t you? No, your punishment is not being allowed to go out to play. You know that. We went through all that at the start, remember?’

His expression hardened. ‘But that’s crap! That’s like punishing me twice.’

I shook my head. ‘Spencer, I don’t even see why this is bothering you – you haven’t been out to play. You’ve not even wanted to.’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘But I was going to! And now I can’t. Is that what you’re saying?’

It felt like I was talking to a tiny politician. A very cross one. ‘Yes, love, it is,’ I confirmed. ‘For this week, at least.’

‘God, that’s so unfair!’

I was still shaking my head in disbelief as he stomped back off up the stairs, but as the days passed it became clear that this wasn’t about playing out. For Spencer, it was a matter of principle. He simply wouldn’t let it rest, mumbling to himself about it constantly, and going off on one about ‘injustice’ half a dozen times a day. By the time Wednesday came around and he was due back at school, I couldn’t have been happier. Perhaps now we’d see the end of it.

But school, it seemed, was just another irritant in his life. Just another thing to ruin his day.

‘I hate school,’ he told me, after I’d nagged him about the time for the umpteenth time. ‘And my teacher,’ he added as he climbed into the back of the car.

‘Oh, you’ll be fine once you get there,’ I said, wincing as he slammed the car door, for good measure. ‘Once you see your friends again, you’ll see. It’s always a bit nerve-racking after the long summer holidays. But once you’re back … tell you what. Shall I put a CD on? Some music to take your mind off things maybe?’

This seemed to cheer him up. ‘I’ve got one,’ he said, brightening. ‘Here.’ He passed me a CD he’d fished out of his backpack. ‘It’s my favourite. It’s the Chipmunks.’

It was, too. For the next 15 minutes all conversation was halted as he hummed along to some frankly bizarre, squeaky renditions of a bunch of pop songs I’d never even heard before. But it did seem to have worked, because as we turned into the school car park his mood seemed to have brightened considerably.

It was one of those balmy September days that just seem perfect for starting school again. Warm and golden, with just enough of an autumnal tinge to signal that summer’s languid days were over and it was time to sharpen pencils and start work. It was a time of year I’d always loved; all crisp new uniforms and a clear sense of purpose. But, as I was about to find out, it was not a feeling Spencer shared.

The unit – the more correct name for what Spencer knew as school – was actually a large house, set in the middle of a ring of mature trees. It looked inviting and appealing; very much a place of learning, even though I knew that most of the children who attended it were there precisely because they all had challenges with doing just that. Not that it wasn’t somewhat obvious. We entered via a pair of electronically opened gates, which began closing again immediately we passed through them.

I parked up, got out of the car and opened Spencer’s door – he couldn’t do it himself, because of the child lock – and, once I’d done so, leaned back in to the front passenger foot well to grab my handbag. It was then, to my astonishment, that he made what was obviously a bid for freedom, sprinting across the car park towards the now secured gates. It took mere seconds for him to scale them – he was obviously something of an expert – and even found time, as I hurried in pursuit, to give me the finger before jogging off down the road.

Happily, at that point, another car had pulled up and, as I watched from behind the now re-opening gates, the occupant jumped out, shouting, ‘Don’t worry! I’ll catch him!’ before sprinting off after his rapidly disappearing prey.

To say I was bemused would be an understatement. I was now standing in the middle of what looked like a crime scene: the gates swinging open, the car blocking the entrance, its driver’s door still flung open, the dust that had been kicked up by the chase slowly settling. I was also, for all that, thinking fast. The man – who I presumed must be a teacher, and who looked to be in his late twenties – clearly knew exactly what he was dealing with. I’d also got the impression he knew where to go, and every confidence he’d bring his diminutive charge to heel.

But why hadn’t I been told about this? Because from the evidence in front of me it seemed pretty clear that young Spencer was a serial absconder.

It was a good ten minutes before the two of them were once again in sight, walking towards me. ‘What on earth was that about?’ I asked Spencer, as soon as he was in earshot. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. What were you thinking?’

The young man stuck a hand out and grinned at me amiably. ‘Mr Gorman,’ he said. ‘Very nice to meet you. You’ll be Spencer’s foster mother, then, will you?’

I nodded and introduced myself. ‘And I’m really, really sorry. I had no idea he’d try to run away. I’m so sorry.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Mrs Watson,’ he said. ‘Not your fault. Someone should have told you – young Spencer here doesn’t like our school a whole lot.’ He playfully ruffled Spencer’s hair. ‘Isn’t that right, young man?’

We started towards the entrance, Mr Gorman’s hand gently guiding Spencer. ‘His mum and dad used to have to physically bring him right into reception,’ he said chattily. ‘But he’s always fine once he’s in, aren’t you, mate?’

Spencer looked resigned, but, at the same time, a little pleased with himself. There was clearly a bond here, and something else besides. This stunt of his had brought him some positive attention. Was that a part of why he did it? ‘Come on,’ said Mr Gorman, laughing. ‘Let’s get you settled in your class, then Mrs Watson and I can have a chat, okay?’

‘Okay, sir,’ Spencer answered. ‘But it was worth a try though, wannit?’ And with that, he skipped off to class, grinning cheekily.

* * *

It took around 20 minutes for Mr Gorman to give me a quick guided tour of the school. He was Spencer’s supervising teacher – a role that a head of year would have in a conventional school – and as we walked he told me Spencer was a miniature Houdini, who’d abscond any chance he could get. What the school did, he explained, was to minimise those chances, keeping him occupied almost every moment of the school day, and never letting him out into the grounds unsupervised. This was reassuring, though it did leave me very unnerved. At no point had anyone mentioned this to me or Mike before, much less given us any directives about keeping him indoors. Surely something like this should have come up? I made a mental note to ring the supervising social worker.

I was still ruminating on this as I drove round to Riley’s, where I’d planned on spending much of the school day. Spencer was eight, much too young to be safe out alone. It seemed clear I’d need to keep my wits about me.

‘Not that you’ll be able to do a lot about it anyway,’ said Riley, after I’d droned on for half an hour. ‘I mean, you can obviously keep him indoors all the while he’s grounded. But what about next week? You’re going to have to let him out then, aren’t you?’

‘Am I? At eight? Unsupervised? That feels so young.’

Riley pointed towards her kitchen window, which looked out onto her street. ‘Not at all. Just look out there at three thirty any weekday. There are kids way younger than eight playing out these days.’

God, I thought, as I drained my mug of coffee. This placement might prove to be harder than I’d thought. I would need eyes in the back of my head.

I spent the rest of the day with Riley and the little ones, which worked its magic, as usual, and when I arrived back to collect him it seemed school had done likewise with Spencer. He ran out to me brandishing a picture he’d painted, obviously in very high spirits.

‘It’s for you and Mike,’ he said proudly, as he held it up to show me. ‘This is a mountain, an’ that’s the black sky – cos it’s dark – an’ this here, with all the red on, is a dead wolf. That’s its blood an’ guts all over that rock there,’ he finished proudly. ‘D’you like it?’

I nodded as I surveyed the colourful scene of bloody carnage. ‘Very good – very artistic,’ I agreed.

Mr Gorman was in high spirits too. I got the impression that every day he hung on to Spencer was a day for celebration. ‘We’ve had a good day today, haven’t we, Spencer?’

And it seemed we were going to have a good evening too. We played Lego after tea, and then Mike produced a new DVD, which he’d picked up on the way home and which clearly delighted Spencer. It was the Disney film Cars, which he’d already seen at the cinema, and couldn’t wait to sit down with us and see again.

I went to bed happy that night, thinking that we might be making progress. I even let myself believe, given how badly the day had started, that the old Casey magic was beginning to work its spell. Which just goes to show that the adage holds true. Pride always comes before a fall.

However, it would be the following evening before I could see that. Like Wednesday, Thursday seemed to be a day full of positives. Spencer trotted into school happily – no break for the border – and when I picked him up, once again he was smiling. And he continued to smile until he’d finished his tea, upon which he told me that he wanted to play out.

‘You can’t, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘You’re still grounded, remember?’

‘But I have to,’ he whined. ‘I told Connor I would.’

‘Connor? Who’s Connor?’ I said. I didn’t know the name.

‘He lives up the road,’ he said. ‘He’s my age. We speak out of our windows.’

‘Out of your windows?’ I asked, baffled. ‘What d’you mean, speak out of your windows?’

‘He’s only two doors up,’ he explained, as though any idiot would know that. ‘We lean out of our bedroom windows and we chat. Please, Casey,’ he pleaded, ‘just for half an hour? I told him …’

‘No, Spencer, you can’t,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want you leaning out of your bedroom window either. It’s a skylight and it’s dangerous to be leaning out of it.’

‘But I said I’d call for him.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have. You knew you were grounded. Rules are rules. You’ll have to wait till Saturday – points permitting, you can call for him then.’

He acted so quickly right then that I was almost too late. One minute he was sitting there, looking all dejected, and the next he was out of the kitchen and in the hallway like an Exocet missile, only thwarted from escaping by our Yale lock. ‘Spencer,’ I snapped, ‘what on earth do you think you’re doing?’

He dropped his hands, defeated, and glared at me defiantly. ‘You can’t keep me in,’ he yelled. ‘I’m eight years old. Not a kid.’

If his sentiment about what age a ‘kid’ was sounded amusing, his defiance was definitely not. I stepped past him, turned the mortice-lock key below, and then removed it, while he pouted his disapproval before stomping into the living room. Here he turned. ‘You can’t keep it locked for ever,’ he said to me. ‘I’ll be off as soon as you forget. Stupid idiot!’

Out in the kitchen, preparing fish and vegetables for tea, I felt cross with myself. I felt uncharacteristically wound up – and by a little boy of eight! I was also beginning to realise that all the improbable-sounding warnings this child had come with were little by little beginning to come true. I put the fish in the oven to cook and washed my hands. As Spencer was in the living room, watching TV now, perhaps I should go into the conservatory and call his social worker.

But it seemed Glenn had a slightly different take on things where Spencer was concerned. ‘It sounds worse than it is,’ he soothed, after I’d outlined the incident in school, his teacher’s comments and the fact that he’d just tried to abscond from the house. ‘I mean, I do know he’s only eight, but he’s not stupid. According to his parents he spends the majority of his days out on the streets – always has – and he can obviously take care of himself.’

I almost spluttered. ‘So you’re saying we should just leave him to run wild?’

‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘He obviously needs boundaries. It’s boundaries that have been lacking in his life, clearly. All I’m saying is that if he does run you shouldn’t worry unduly. He knows how to look after himself, and he always comes back. Just as soon as he gets cold or hungry.’

This seemed to beggar belief. This man was clearly not a parent. ‘It’s all very well you telling me he can look after himself, Glenn, but Spencer is our responsibility. I need to know that we can keep him safe. It’s our professional responsibility to be sure we can protect him, and, frankly, him running around the streets unsupervised does not constitute a part of that. From what you say, we’re going to have to start locking ourselves in.’

‘I know,’ he soothed again. ‘I know that. And you’re doing great. And if you have to keep the house locked to feel secure, then, obviously, so be it. I’m just trying to reassure you that he’s not a typical eight-year-old. So if he does go missing, chances are he won’t come to any harm.’

I finished the call feeling not more but even less reassured, Spencer’s ‘trendy’ social worker obviously seeing things so differently to how I did. It wasn’t even about what harm might befall him if he managed to run away. From what Glenn had said, that was the least of my worries. It was much more about the principle of what foster care was meant to be. How could I possibly create an environment of ‘trust, mutual respect and comfort’ when I had to behave like a prison guard? Not much of any of those three in that, was there?

I gave Mike a quick debrief when he arrived home from work, not least because I had to unlock the front door to let him in. We decided against him having a further disciplinary chat with Spencer tonight. Better to enjoy tea and keep the atmosphere light in the hopes that he’d feel a little less like doing his Houdini thing. And tea went well, with Spencer chatting animatedly about his paintings, and telling Mike how much he liked drawing in his sketch book. Even his hopes of perhaps becoming an artist one day.

‘Would you like to see it?’ Spencer asked him. ‘I could go and get it now.’

‘After tea,’ Mike said. ‘Then we can sit down and go through it properly. I’d enjoy that.’

Some hope, as it turned out.

Tea was over in double quick time, Spencer shovelling food in as if his life depended on it, and me all the while feeling pleased, at least on that front. Here was a child who would willingly eat fish and vegetables. And just as Mike was filling me in about an order from work, Spencer, his plate cleared, declared himself finished. ‘Shall I go and get my sketch book now, Mike?’ he wanted to know.

‘Go on then,’ chuckled Mike. ‘You’re obviously dying for me to see it. Off you go. I’ll be done here by the time you’re back down.’

Spencer ran off happily, and Mike continued with his story. Seconds later, however, he stopped abruptly. We had both heard the front door slamming shut.

At first I couldn’t fathom it. The door had been double locked. I had the key. Then Mike groaned. ‘Shit! I went out to the car, didn’t I?’ he realised. ‘To get those papers. And left the key on the side in the kitchen … oh, shit!’

All that acting. All that desperate need to show Mike his sketch book. I felt the biggest fool, suddenly, on the planet. Spencer had been right in what he’d said to me. I had been a stupid idiot.

We ran to the door, down that path, onto the street. Spencer was nowhere to be seen.