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 9

Chapter 4

Wherever this apparent alter ego was hidden, Spencer clearly wasn’t prepared to reveal it to us yet. In fact as the days went by he seemed to be turning into one of the best little house guests we’d ever had. Also, on the face of it, one of the sharpest, which in hindsight should perhaps have made me think.

He was an intelligent boy, and straight away he seemed keen to get to grips with the programme, the idea of which we had sketched out to him the day after he’d arrived. He was particularly fascinated with the whole system of points and levels, and keen to study what he had to do to earn privileges.

‘Right, then,’ he said, one afternoon towards the end of the second week, while he was sitting in the kitchen with me, eating his lunch. ‘So all I need is a hundred points a day, and then I get to watch TV, go on the PlayStation for half an hour and play on my DS.’

‘Or,’ I said. ‘Not “and”. It’s “or”. But, yes, that’s right. And any points you get over the hundred can go towards extra things, like ordering a takeaway meal one night, or renting a movie. Things like that.’

He nodded, and continued to study the lists. There was one detailing how many points each given task was worth, and another detailing what they could ‘buy’. I watched how intently he was studying them, his eyes darting back and forth, when he suddenly clapped a hand down on the kitchen table. ‘Aha,’ he said, a grin spreading across his innocent, cherubic face. ‘So, hang on a minute … there’s nothing here about losing points, is there? Is that right, Casey? I don’t lose points for being naughty or anything? I just get to win points for the good stuff I do?’

He clearly wasn’t interested in having a philosophical discussion about carrots versus sticks and their various merits. He’d spotted something. His expression made that clear. I didn’t like the way this conversation seemed to be going. I thought about my answer before replying. ‘Well, I suppose so,’ I said, finally. ‘But then again, if you were doing bad things, you wouldn’t be earning any points, would you?’

‘I could!’ he said, pointing emphatically at the piece of paper. ‘If I clean my room, get ready for school – when I go back to school, anyway – then do two jobs around the house, and go to bed on time without moaning, that’s almost my hundred points, there.’ He grinned. ‘So then all I’d have to do is to be polite and respectful to some adults and that’s it! Even if I did do something bad, I would still have got my hundred points, wouldn’t I? I mean I’m not going to be bad. I’m just saying.’

I stared at Spencer, who was looking as sweet and innocent as the day is long, and then I looked at the points sheet and pondered. Here he was, an eight-year-old, trying to work out how he could turn things – this entirely new situation – to his advantage, and at first glance he appeared to be right. Surely there must be some mistake. I picked up the points sheet and went through it in my mind. Incredible to think that this had never come up before. Incredible to think I’d never even thought it. And then I saw it. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘Slow down a bit, Spencer. You are right, in that you wouldn’t lose the points you’d earned that day. But if you had misbehaved on this example day you talk about, then you wouldn’t get the extra points, would you?’

‘Yeah, I would,’ he said. I shook my head. He studied the sheet too. ‘Why not?’

I pointed to the item I’d identified on the sheet. ‘Because if you did something naughty, who would decide it was naughty? An adult. Which means you wouldn’t get the showing respect points, would you? Because it isn’t respectful of an adult’s feelings if you misbehave, is it?’

Spencer took – in fact, almost snatched – the sheet from my hand, so determined was he to prove me wrong. He spent quite a while very obviously searching for a loophole, before slapping it down again and picking up his sandwich, thoroughly cross. ‘Humph,’ he said irritably, before he bit into it. ‘Well, it’s not very clear, that chart, is it?’

I could have ticked him off for his cheek. In fact, it almost made me laugh. Perhaps this was our first glimpse of the real Spencer.

But on the whole he was the picture of perfection, and when Riley and the kids came to visit on the Saturday he even melted my heart a little at the way he was with Levi, who at almost three apparently reminded him of his little brother.

‘Ooh,’ he said, once introduced, ‘you’re just like my little Harvey. Do you wanna come and play with my dinosaurs with me? My Harvey loves dinosaurs.’ He held out his hand and Levi wasted no time in taking it, seeming delighted at having someone new to play with.

Riley pulled out the toy box with the dinosaurs in it, to which Spencer had already added his own stash. Watching, I was taken by his willingness to share. And also his willingness to play with little Levi. Not every child, in my experience, was quite so friendly. It was so obvious he’d come from a home and not a ‘home’ – as in an institution-type home such as the one in which our first foster child had lived.

‘That’s really nice of you,’ I said, as they hauled the box into the middle of the living room. ‘Kind of you to play with Levi. Thanks, love.’

He smiled broadly. ‘It’s fine. I’ll come and let you know when I get bored.’

‘He seems lovely, Mum,’ Riley commented as we went into the kitchen with the baby, leaving the living-room door open so we could still keep an eye on things. There seemed nothing to fear here, but our fingers had been burned; the sort of kids I fostered didn’t always have the usual boundaries, as we’d found out more than once. ‘Really sweet kid,’ she continued, while I cooed over the baby. ‘Shall I sort out some drinks and biscuits for them?’

‘I’ll get the milk,’ I said, hoisting Jackson up onto my hip. ‘You should find some Jaffa Cakes in the treats cupboard.’

She rummaged in my wall cupboard. ‘Nope. There’s half a packet of Jammie Dodgers though. They’ll do.’

‘You sure?’ I asked, joining her. ‘I definitely bought some. You know, I think I’m going mad. That’s about the third time this week that I’ve gone to get something only to find it’s not there.’

Riley laughed. ‘That’s just your age!’

I laughed as well, as she took the snacks in to the children, but it wasn’t. It had happened the day before, too, when I’d brought home a new DVD. I’d looked everywhere – even double-checked the receipt, just to convince myself I’d actually bought it – but having put it down I’d not been able to find it anywhere. I’d asked Mike and I’d asked Spencer, but neither had seen it. And it had been the same with a pair of earrings I’d left by the bathroom basin. And now this. An unpalatable thought began taking shape in my mind.

Riley had now returned and we both sat down at the kitchen table. ‘You know what?’ I said, as I settled Jackson on my lap with his favourite squeaky duck. ‘This isn’t the first time something’s gone missing this week.’ I lowered my voice a little. ‘Now I’m wondering if it’s Spencer.’

‘What, like stealing from you?’

‘Maybe. Or maybe “borrowing”. Or maybe as some sort of game. Who knows? Or maybe it is just my age. It’s just … hmm, well, I think I’ll have to keep my eye out, won’t I? It won’t be the first time. These things do happen. Occupational hazard!’

We moved on then, changed the subject, and got on with catching up on gossip. And when Spencer finally tired of playing dinosaurs with Levi, as he’d predicted, we relocated to the living room so Levi could instead play with Jackson, who’d just started crawling. Well, a kind of crawling, anyway. It was actually more rolling and pulling himself about using his elbows, but it got him from A to B efficiently enough.

Spencer, at that point, went back up to his room, and the rest of the afternoon sped by. So much so that our loose plan to pop to the shops at some point had disappeared along with the Jaffa Cakes. That was often the way things worked out at the moment. One toddler was fine, one little baby was a breeze, but sometimes the business of getting kitted out, and then trailing both of them round town – with an eight-year-old boy in tow now too, for that matter – involved more effort than the pair of us felt like making, especially on what was turning out to be a typically wet late-August day. Spencer had also come back down to join us, and I’d put a Disney film on for them to watch.

We were still in the living room when Mike got home from watching Kieron playing football, and, shocked to find us there, he even commented on it. He picked up Levi and swung him up high over his head, causing Jackson to dissolve into fits of giggles. ‘Now then, mister,’ he asked, ‘how come your mummy and your nanna aren’t out shopping? It’s incredible. Did you confiscate their purses?’

Unbeknown to Mike, he’d said something particularly astute, because 20 minutes later, after we’d packed away the toys ready for Mike to drop them home, Riley couldn’t seem to lay hands on hers.

‘You seen my purse, Mum?’ she asked, following me out into the kitchen, rummaging in her handbag as she went. About to leave now, she wanted to pay me for some raffle tickets I’d been selling for a local charity, and had brought the money round especially.

‘I haven’t, love,’ I said. ‘You definitely sure you brought it?’

‘Course I’m sure. Maybe Levi’s been messing about with it. Levi,’ she asked as he toddled in behind her, ‘have you been playing with Mummy’s purse?’ He looked at her blankly, shaking his head. ‘Spencer, how about you?’ I asked, following Riley back into the living room to look for it. He was sitting where we’d left him, the movie still running, and there was something about his demeanour that made me look twice.

‘No,’ he said, chewing his nails. ‘Why would I know anything about it? That’s typical, that is. Why am I getting the blame? I always get the blame for what little kids do.’

A clear case, it occurred to me, of protesting too much. ‘I’m not blaming you, Spencer. I was just asking if you’d seen it. Now can you help us look, please? Riley’s due home and she needs to find her purse.’

He stood up quickly enough and I assumed he was going to help, but instead he made straight for the door and up the stairs. Moments later, we all heard his bedroom door slam.

‘Well,’ said Mike, who’d caught the tail-end of this, ‘that was something of an over-reaction, don’t you think?’

‘It was,’ I replied. ‘And I wonder if there’s more to it.’

I told him of my suspicions about the things that had gone missing. He didn’t look surprised.

‘Well, that’s probably it, then,’ he said. ‘After all, they did say he had hidden depths, didn’t they? So maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s what the petty offences all were. Maybe stealing’s his thing.’

‘God,’ said Riley. ‘Honestly …’

Mike frowned. ‘Which means we’ll have to search his room, of course.’

I felt hesitant. ‘But what if it isn’t him? What if that’s exactly the sort of thing that happens to him at home? Won’t make for much of a start, will it, making it clear we don’t trust him?’

‘Mum,’ said Riley, ‘I take your point, but it can really only have been him. If Levi had had it out we would have already found it, wouldn’t we? He’s not been anywhere else in the house today, has he? And I definitely had it, and he was in here all that time, with my handbag. It must have been him.’

‘We need to confront him, at least,’ Mike added. So, all out of options, we trooped up the stairs.

Mike knocked on the door before pushing it open, and found Spencer sitting on his bed, reading a book. ‘Listen, mate,’ Mike said, ‘I know you said you hadn’t moved Riley’s purse, but when something goes missing we have no choice but to search everywhere for it, and that includes your room, I’m afraid. Is that okay?’

Spencer shrugged and stood up. ‘Course,’ he said, moving into the doorway, out of the way. ‘Help yourself. That’s fine.’ Mike began searching.

I joined him. Between us we found nothing. We looked under the bed, behind the curtains, under the pillows, inside the drawers. I’d been fostering long enough to have got pretty clever: our very first child, more chillingly, had a habit of self-harming, and used to carefully stash any sort of blade he could find. With Spencer watching, however, this felt distinctly uncomfortable, especially as it looked as though the purse really wasn’t there.

‘It’s obviously not here, Mike,’ I began, having run out of places to look for it. ‘Let’s go and have another look in the dining room, shall we? Perhaps it’s –’

Mike raised an arm then, to stop me. He now had an odd sort of look on his face. And as I watched, his gaze moved from Spencer to the wall – to the place where we’d hung a print of two footballers. He held his gaze there, and the effect on Spencer was immediate. He let out a whimper, then suddenly rattled off down the stairs.

‘What the … hey!’ I heard Riley exclaim, from the hall. She was waiting there with the little ones, phoning David.

‘What?’ I asked Mike. ‘What is it, love?’

‘That picture.’ He crossed the room in two strides and clasped the print in both hands, lifting it slightly so he could free the cord and take it off the wall.

I was just wondering how on earth you could hide a purse behind a picture – any purse, let alone Riley’s receipt-stuffed great big thing – when the question I’d not yet finished asking was answered. As Mike stepped back with it we both gasped in unison, unable to quite believe what we were seeing.

Before us was a hole, in the shape of a raggedy-edged circle, about eight inches in diameter and going back some way. Enough plaster had been dug out to expose the timber framework, and as I stepped closer it was clear that a huge space had been made available, because Mike was already beginning to pass things to me. First the Jaffa Cakes, unopened, then the missing DVD, then the earrings, which had been carefully wrapped in a folded envelope, then one of my necklaces – one that I hadn’t even realised was missing – then a cigarette lighter Riley had accused me the week before of losing, then finally, with a last insertion of Mike’s arm, Riley’s purse.

I stood speechless with shock at the scene laid before me. If we’d found this stash anywhere else, I could have believed it. The bottom of the wardrobe, say, or tucked away in a box under the bed. But it was that hole. That painstakingly constructed hole had floored me. How much time, how much industry, how many handfuls of carefully smuggled plasterboard must have gone into the creation of that secret safe of his? He was eight years old. Eight! It seemed beyond comprehension. Except, was it?

Mike brushed plaster dust from his forearm and pulled his sleeve down. ‘Well, we can’t say we weren’t warned,’ he said.