Читать книгу A Boy Without Hope: Part 3 of 3 - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 8

Apart from emerging for food three minutes after the time I’d gone in and told the hole in the door what time it would be served, Miller spent the rest of the day and evening in his room. And, anxious not to welly in and potentially scupper what might well mark a vital watershed, I refrained from demanding that he come down unless he wanted to, and didn’t ask him to expand on some of the chilling things he’d said.

And, having not received replies to either of my emails by mid-afternoon, I decided that I needed to be more proactive, leaving a brisk voicemail for Libby (who was out of the office) to demand that things were stepped up a gear, before the precious momentum (to quote Mr Hammond, my new favourite person) was lost. There was an urgent need, I told the answering machine, to get Miller some sort of regular counselling; to seize upon what had surely been his clearest cry for help yet. And in tandem with his endless talk of blood and gore and ‘lucky’ dead babies, it seemed to signify that there might be a very present danger of him wanting to do something to harm himself.

I disconnected in thoughtful mood. Or even us?

Because there was also the fact that my son had moved out, fearing the escalating tension. And, as far as I was concerned, Tyler’s departure impacted on everything. Because, as Libby must surely realise – as should Christine Bolton, for that matter – if it came to a straight choice between Tyler’s well-being and Miller’s, there was no choice. They could push all they liked (and they had) for Mike and I to commit to Miller for the long term, but without a commitment from them to support him as well, both practically and psychologically, the question wasn’t even worth asking; I had already made that commitment to Tyler, hadn’t I? And I sure as hell wasn’t about to renege on that.

And it seemed they got my point, because the next morning, bright and early, as per a text – a bloody text! – from Libby, the cavalry showed up. Not Christine – she was away dealing with an emergency elsewhere – but Libby, her supervising social worker, Jane, and a psychologist from CAMHS. They’d also brought another social worker, whose job it was to take Miller out for an hour while we thrashed out a strategy we were all comfortable with in the light of the new developments I’d outlined.

It started well, too. As in pleasingly not well. In that, despite all the training and tools he’d come equipped with, the young male social worker who’d come to take Miller off out somewhere was unable to even coax him from his bedroom.

I was keen to say ‘See?’ but I managed to restrain myself. It was sufficient that they’d noted this oh-so important point.

But the biggest point was a sticking point, as soon became obvious – when the psychologist, a stern-looking young man in a black funereal suit, voiced his professional opinion that there was no point in setting up one-to-one counselling with Miller till Miller was in a more stable situation. i.e. attending school regularly, by which he meant in September, and in a settled long-term placement. By which he meant with us.

So, like poker. The stakes raised. I’ll call you. I’ll see you. He would happily commit to helping, he said, as long as we were equally happy to commit to keeping Miller long term.

‘But we’re not prepared to do that,’ I argued. ‘Not yet. I mean, I know everybody wants us to give the reassurance that we can keep Miller in the longer term, but we just can’t at this stage. I’m sorry, but we can’t.’

‘But he does need that stability,’ the psychologist said. ‘From what I’ve seen, a big part of the problem seems to be that Miller never knows where he will be living from one week to the next.’ Tell me something I don’t know, I thought. ‘And until he feels comfortable,’ he went on, ‘and has a real sense of belonging, then we won’t get very far trying to work with him, will we? In fact it’s pointless if he’s to be moving on again so soon. Like trying to put a Band-Aid on a broken leg.’

He looked at me pointedly. And might have meant nothing by it. It might just have been a simple statement of fact, which I understood. And, to a great extent, agreed with. At least, in principle. But I still felt that pressure – that what he was really saying was that the ball was in my court, and the decision was mine. That it would be my fault if Miller didn’t get psychiatric help, so he could start getting better. I almost caved in at that point – God, I felt that as well, didn’t I? And hadn’t I already told Miller that the placement wouldn’t end? Hadn’t that been my exact point? That he couldn’t control that? Yet here he was, it seemed, doing exactly that, even from his bedroom. Even so, something, some instinct, held me back; kept me going.

‘As soon as I can tell you something different, I will,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do any better than that at this point. The sad truth is that if Miller is determined to end a placement, he will do so, by one means or another.’ I glanced around the table. ‘We all already know that. And frustrated as I am to admit it, we may not have any say in the matter.’

‘I understand what you’re saying, Casey,’ said Jane, the supervising social worker. ‘And I realise that this leaves us at a bit of an impasse.’ She looked at the psychologist. ‘So, how about, until we all know how this will pan out, Casey has access to your out-of-hours team? Perhaps she could make use of the service in the event of an emergency, or if she just needs some advice on something? Would that be something you could offer?’

‘That seems reasonable,’ the psychologist said. ‘And, yes, I don’t see why not.’

‘Excellent!’ Libby said, as if he’d offered me the moon on a stick. My ‘thank you’ was rather more muted.

But I at least got the Band-Aid. However, even as I made a note of the numbers he then gave me, I knew it would be highly unlikely that I’d ever use them. How could I be supported by people who knew nothing of Miller? His background, his psychological problems, his ongoing issues? What help could they possibly give me in a crisis situation?

But there was clearly nothing else on offer. And not much left to say. Except by the social worker who’d spent the meeting holed up in Miller’s bedroom, and whose comment, when he’d been called down, when Jane asked him how things had gone, had only one word for her – ‘hmm’.

But it seemed Miller himself did have something to offer me. Because, as soon as I’d waved the team off and closed the front door, I turned around to see the boy himself halfway down the stairs. He’d clearly been waiting and watching, having heard them all leaving. He also had some items in his hands.

‘You alright, love?’ I asked him, wondering at his strange expression as he came down the remaining half dozen. And I felt for him. How many children, as part of their everyday normality, had to cope with the knowledge that strangers (and they were, in many cases) sat around discussing their futures in the way we’d just done? Yes, it was what it was, and it had to be done. But, on the front line – there to mop up, once the professionals had swept out again – I never felt comfortable with it.

In reply, he held one hand out, and I opened my palm. He placed two things in it. Both plastic disposable lighters. Then the other hand. And, once again, I held a hand out. And in that one he placed a knife.

It was a slender chef’s knife, and it was heavy. And doubtless sharp. And it wasn’t mine.

‘Where are these from, love?’ I asked him.

He seemed happy to answer. ‘I’ve had the lighters for yonks,’ he said. ‘I stole the knife off Jenny. I thought you might as well have them now, seeing as the police will prob’ly find them.’

‘The police? There are no police coming.’

‘There are always police coming.’

I turned the knife over in my hand. ‘Why did you steal this from Jenny, Miller?’

He pulled a face – one that said, Do you even need to ask? ‘For protection, of course,’ he said.

‘Protection from what, Miller? From who?’

He shrugged. ‘Just in case,’ he said.

‘In case of what?’

A heavy outbreath. ‘Just in case.’

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ I said. ‘What situation do you imagine where you’d need – or want – to use this?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just need to be able to defend myself.’

‘Against what, love? Everyone around you – me, Mike, Libby … absolutely everyone – wants only what’s best for you. No one wants to hurt you.’

‘So you say …’

‘But it’s true, Miller. You know that.’

He shook his head. ‘Well, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘About what?’

‘About a raid. About everything. You’re on your own now.’

‘Miller, there is not going to be police raid. Nothing bad is going to happen. There is no need for you to be frightened about someone trying to hurt you. Or us.’

He looked at me strangely. ‘So you say,’ he said again.

Then he turned on his heel and went back up to his room, leaving me at a loss to know what to do or what to say. But he was right about one thing, I thought, as I took the contraband into the kitchen. That’s exactly how I felt. That I was on my own now.

***

Despite my resolution that he would have to earn back the TV remote, after our encounter I returned it to Miller’s room. I’d been discomfited, to say the least, about his proclamations of impending danger, and was still chewing over the whys and wherefores of what he’d said. Mainly the whys. Why did he feel that he needed protection? There was nothing to indicate it in his records, but was it because of an incident that had happened with a removal from a previous placement? Or – more likely, I imagined – related to violence meted out to him while still with his parents? Either way, he clearly felt he was in danger – something clearly reflected in his obsession with disasters and death; his endless wondering what it might feel like to be fatally wounded. Yet he’d also spontaneously given up his ‘protection’, which, however garbled his thinking, felt like a big step towards trust.

Of course, it might just be that he genuinely believed that, as a result of the disclosures and the meeting, they’d have been searched for and found anyway. But even if that were so, it was still a considered action – one of taking control, yes, but of taking control in a positive way. A decision taken to perhaps minimise negative consequences. No, I wasn’t sure that was quite how he’d seen it himself, but when I’d given it back I’d made much of the fact that he had taken control of a situation in a way that I definitely approved of. That he’d been a good boy, and had done the right thing.

Though, as I’d had to talk to the duvet in which he was currently rolled up, saying nothing, what he thought of my little speech, I had no idea.

***

At around three that afternoon, a young fire officer arrived at the house, armed with a small laptop and a big smile. He looked to be in his early thirties and was so tall that he had to duck his head as he entered the house.

‘Well, I thought my husband was tall,’ I said, as he bent even lower to come into the living room. ‘I must look like someone from Gulliver’s Travels to you.’

The fireman laughed. ‘Not just you, Mrs Watson, I can assure you. I kind of have this dwarfing effect on most people. I blame my father. I’m David Helm, by the way,’ he added, holding his hand out for me to shake. ‘I trust the young man in question is ready to meet me?’

‘It’s Miller,’ I told him. ‘And please, call me Casey. But I’m afraid he’s upstairs and I doubt he’ll come down. He’s not asleep – he’s playing on his PlayStation – but I’ve tried everything to get him down here for your arrival, without success. I even told him you’d march up there and do the work right there on his bed, but he still won’t come down, I’m afraid.’

‘Well if you don’t mind, that’s exactly what I will do,’ he said. ‘When I’m right there in front of them, most boys tend to listen to what I have to say. Would that be okay with you?’

I had no doubt at all that most boys would listen to this imposing fellow, but would Miller? Though he was in the habit of listening more to males rather than females, he wasn’t ‘most boys’ – far from it. Still, after the fraught, defeated expressions of my earlier visitors, this young man’s demeanour was like a breath of fresh air. ‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Though you’ll probably have to open his curtains, and please ignore the state of his room, but, yes, please, be my guest. Top of the stairs, turn right, second room. ’

He patted his laptop. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said with a grin. ‘All I need is this and my charming banter, and he’ll be putty in my hands.’

Bolstered and inspired by his confidence, I left him to it, but still crossed my fingers for good measure. Perhaps a stranger of this kind coming in would flip some switch and get him to communicate properly, in a two-way conversation. But I wasn’t holding my breath.

I’d been right not to, as well. Because half an hour later, David Helm was back downstairs, looking decidedly more frazzled than when he went up. ‘Wow,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That was a career first. What an odd experience.’