A Boy Without Hope

by Casey Watson

  I experienced a moment of clarity. And sadness. How did it feel to be twelve, and so alone in the world that you were reduced to spending your Saturday afternoon playing ‘catch me if you can’ with a middle-aged virtual stranger? Because that was what was happening, wasn’t it? That was what this amounted to. He was like a stuck record, going round and round and round, and heading nowhere. I was just the latest in a long line of well-meaning strangers into whose lives – and I’m sure he’d have put it this way – he’d been unceremoniously dumped. I smiled. ‘Coming home?’ I called.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Which, give or take the odd expletive, was exactly what I did, as soon as Mike pulled up and told me he’d take over. ‘Go and do your shopping, love,’ he said. ‘Just head back when you’re ready. I’ll round up me laddo, and we’ll see you at home.’

  But I didn’t shop, not in the end. I tried for a bit, but my heart was no longer in it. For all that Mike was confident he’d be able to coax Miller back eventually, it was hard to concentrate on summer tops when I knew what was happening. After all, a little voice told me as I renegotiated the road works, there was always a first time, for everything. He might well have run off. He might have refused to get in Mike’s car. And I didn’t know, because Mike had insisted I leave him to it – one less person to provide an audience for his current game. So instead, I went home, to find neither of them there. So what merry dance was he now leading Mike?

  But there was no point in phoning him, because he’d probably be driving, so I made myself a coffee, and took a sandwich up to Tyler, then, having regaled him with the shenanigans I’d ‘enjoyed’ on our little outing, left him to it, and went back downstairs to wait for them both.

  And wait … It was more than an hour and a half later before Mike arrived home. But without Miller. By which time, having gone through a range of emotions, I’d already had a serious crisis of professional confidence. And this confirmed it. I’d called it all wrong.

  ‘Oh, lord – where is he?’ I said, contemplating the call to the emergency duty team, and the inevitable debacle that would follow. ‘Don’t tell me you lost him?’

  ‘I bloody wish!’ he growled.

  He shut the front door, and went into the living room, where he threw his car keys down onto the coffee table. Then he went across to the window and looked out.

  The penny dropped. ‘So he is here?’ I felt a stab of relief.

  ‘Oh, he’s somewhere out there, certainly. And I’ve a good mind to leave him out there, as well! And hope for rain. Wipe the smile off his bloody face. Can you imagine what it’s like? I must have looked like a kerb crawler or something.’

  ‘You mean he’s walked all the way home from town?’

  Apparently so. Because there hadn’t been a great deal Mike could do. Miller wouldn’t get in the car, and Mike couldn’t – wouldn’t – make him. And I sympathised; a man bundling a screeching, kicking twelve-year-old into a vehicle, in the middle of the town centre? It didn’t take much of a leap of imagination to work out how that might pan out.

  But there was no way Miller could walk home on his own, and he knew it. Bright though he was, he’d never even spent time in our part of the county. He’d never have found his way home on his own. Which left Mike with one option. To play leapfrog with Miller. Driving ahead of him, then waiting for him to saunter past him, then, when faced with a junction, driving ahead once again, so Miller knew the way and could follow him. Then a saunter past, and a drive, and a stop at another junction, while waiting for him to catch up again.

  ‘I must have asked him twenty times to get in, but he wouldn’t, of course. Just kept sticking two fingers up at me and laughing. ‘So he can stay out there for a bit. No way am I going out to beg him to come in. And I don’t think you should either.’

  I could understand how angry Mike was, and I agreed that perhaps we should wait and see how this played out for a bit. Would Miller come in under his own steam or wouldn’t he? Just how long was he prepared to keep this up?

  We agreed half an hour, and were just contemplating our next move in the kitchen when we heard a loud shout from above. Tyler was up in his bedroom, still engrossed in revision. Well, had been. Because it was his voice we could hear, booming out across the front lawn.

  ‘You’ve got two minutes to get in before I come down there!’

  We both went to the window, to see Miller transfixed on the pavement. And it hit me that there was one person he couldn’t manipulate. Couldn’t push to the brink, because he wasn’t hidebound by all the rules. A peer. And an older one. A bigger, and possibly badder, one. Someone who was genuinely scary.

  ‘I mean it!’ Tyler barked. ‘If I have to come down there …’

  Upon which, as if electrified, or jerked by an invisible string, Miller scuttled up the path and exploded into the hall, then thundered up the stairs to his room before we could get to him.

  I went to follow but Mike placed a hand on my arm. ‘Leave it be,’ he said. ‘I reckon Tyler’s got this one, don’t you?’

  Upon which, the hero of the moment came ambling down the stairs. ‘No need to thank me,’ he said, grinning.

  Food for thought, I thought. Definitely food for thought. Perhaps Tyler would turn out to be our secret weapon.

  Chapter 10

  I needed help. And had resolved to start the ball rolling on Monday. To where, I wasn’t sure, but at least I had a plan. I’d gone through such notes as I’d had and one thing seemed clear. Miller had been in several foster homes but up until now, as far as I could tell, he’d been the only child in them. Just him and whichever pesky, interfering adults had been given the task of looking after him – and, where, up to now, he’d been able to call the shots.

  He was, therefore, increasingly used to ruling the roost. Playing the system to set the system up to his liking. Which might be what he thought he wanted but also the last thing he needed. We weren’t a pack of dogs, but some things were, and should be, set in stone even so. That as a dependent child he understood his place in the pack.

  So I resolved to make lots of phone calls, send lots of emails and generally make it clear to everyone involved that I needed help with Miller, and needed it fast.

  And when I woke up on Sunday morning, to greet a stunning spring day, there was no doubt where my motivation lay either. I wanted to help Miller (how could I not, knowing what he’d been through?) and I knew the absolute first priority, to enable me to do so, was to get help for me. It was something I hated to admit, even to myself, but I knew being cooped up all the time was bad for my own health, and, in tandem with the sleepless nights – well, let’s just say there’s a reason new parents walk around like zombies half the time – it was increasingly leading to compassion fatigue. Despite my head’s constant mantra – that inside the exasperating little dictator was a frightened, lonely child – my heart wasn’t in it nearly as much as it needed to be. It wasn’t helped by the constant feeling that I might have made a bad call in agreeing to take him on in the first place. That I should have heeded John Fulshaw’s warning. That I also should have listened to the little voice that had whispered since day one. That I was burnt out, at least for now, and should have said no.

  It also wasn’t helped by John being out of the picture. I had no reason to, not really, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was no longer as well supported as I was used to being. Just that sense that if things did become unmanageable with Miller, I could pick up the phone and pour my heart out to a friend. Who might not actually be able to do much – we were all victims of the same lack of resources, after all – but who’d listen, and sympathise, and do whatever he could. Who valued me and Mike – that was the crux of it.

  There was also the basic truth that we all need time out. That no one – not even the most conscientious and loving parent – can be in a state of enmity and stress and confrontation all the time. We all need spaces in our lives where we can kick back and simply be, with time to do all the everyday th
ings that we take for granted – ‘everyday’ till we’re denied them, that is. Things like shopping – that still rankled – or going round to Riley’s for a natter. Playing with the grandkids. Having a quiet sit on a park bench in the April sunshine. Simply going for a stroll round the block would recharge my batteries. Just having time to stand and stare and smell the roses. So if I could just manage that – just some regular ‘escape’ time – I was sure I could shake off the nagging negativity, stop feeling so sorry for myself and concentrate on finding the inner Miller.

  For now though, it being Sunday, I’d have to settle for the sunshine, which, as I lay in bed musing on how much sleep I’d now been deprived of, was creeping across the floor and sliding up onto the duvet – almost as if commanding me to get up and seize the day. A new day. And, hopefully, a better one.

  It needed to be. We’d done little more than muddle through the rest of Saturday. After Tyler had left the house to meet up with his friend Denver, a sense of defeat had settled over me. Mike had suggested I head back to town and resume shopping – there had still been an hour or so left for me to do so – but I couldn’t face it. Not the roadworks, not the crowds, not even – unbelievable, this one – the actual shopping, so I ended up on the sofa, watching rubbish on telly, still stewing about our irascible little visitor upstairs, and how thoroughly he’d managed to rile me.

  Mike did try – he went up twice to suggest a kick-about, or a bike ride – but though Miller was at least chastened enough not to give him any backchat, all his answers had been mumbled, grunting versions of ‘no’, and on one occasion he’d even been back in his duvet cocoon, despite the warmth of the afternoon, too apathetic even to fire up the telly. (The PlayStation, naturally, was now off limits.)

  Yes, he’d come down for food, but it was joyless and mostly silent, all of us, I decided, too busy inhabiting our own private universes of disgruntlement.

  This would not do, I decided. A new day, and a sunny one, demanded positivity. So once the sun had engulfed me, I slipped quietly from beneath the covers (so as not to wake Mike), threw on my dressing gown and went down to make some breakfast.

  Forget smelling the roses, at least for the moment. It was my experience and my theory, and I’d yet to be proven wrong on this, that the smell of frying bacon was a universal panacea, and that a decent fry-up – the whole family, sat together round the table – could set the tone for the rest of the day. I started pulling out pots and pans with conviction.

  Activity too is a great lifter of moods, and, with everything apart from the eggs warming in the grill, the coffee pot simmering, and the table all set with toast, jams and juices, I went out to call Mike down in a much better frame of mind – just in time to meet him coming down.

  ‘I thought I could smell something delicious,’ he said, grinning. ‘Shall I rouse his nibs?’

  ‘You go and pop yourself an egg in,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and get the boys up.’

  Mike gave me a quick peck on the lips. ‘Aye-aye, captain,’ he said as he leaned down to pick up the morning paper. ‘Though Ty’s up already. Nose like a beagle, that one. He’s just in the bathroom. Tell him his egg’s going on, too. No signs of life from his lordship’s room as yet, though. With the amount of banging around he was doing last night, I imagine he’s still dead to the world. Still, if you open his door and waft it back and forth a bit, I’m sure he’ll come too. There surely isn’t a kid alive that can resist the smell of your bacon!’

  Cheered by Mike’s jaunty tone, I went up and crossed the landing, and knocked softly on Miller’s bedroom door. I couldn’t hear any sounds of life, though, so I knocked a second time, only louder. ‘Miller?’ I called. ‘You awake, love?’

  Still nothing. So, wondering if he was sulking after the previous day’s debacle – or perhaps sitting up in bed, writing dark-web code on that pad of his, ignoring me – I pushed down the handle and went on in.

  The room was pitch dark, as it was intended to be. Because we’d had numerous foster children who found it difficult to sleep, we’d invested in decent blackout curtains a couple of years ago. So it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust, even with the door open.

  ‘Miller, love,’ I called softly as I walked over to his bed. ‘Time to come down for breakfast. I’ve made – let me see now – bacon, eggs, beans, mushrooms, sausages and pancakes. And lots of other delicious stuff too.’

  I leaned down to pat the warm comma shape of his body under the duvet. ‘Come on, sleepy head. Let’s put yesterday behind us. All done and dusted now, okay? Today’s a new day, and it’s a lovely one, too.’

  There was a stirring beneath my hand, as he rolled onto his back. In the semi-darkness, a pair of sleepy eyes half opened. He had indeed been fast asleep, then. Still wasn’t quite awake. And in that moment, I felt a knee-jerk rush of affection and sympathy. Half-asleep children have that power – always have had for me, at any rate. In their not-quite-conscious state, it’s like the mask slips away. What I saw, as he blinked, was the sweet boy he should have been, with his fuzzy hair, the indentation of the wrinkled sheet on his cheek and the soft scent of freshly washed pyjamas eddying around him.

  His eyes fluttered closed again, and I studied him in silence. And for a long moment, because I wanted to hold on to the image. And it turned out to be the best decision I’d made since he’d come to us, because in that long moment, I spied something I hadn’t seen before. Half buried under the muddle of covers was a small photograph frame. One he’d obviously taken to bed with him.

  I slipped it out carefully and, so I could see it, padded back to the bedroom doorway. It was a cheap painted frame, with much of the paint chipped off – so it was obviously old and well travelled. It was a photo of couple, taken in what looked like a park, with a child in between them – very obviously Miller. He was in a football strip, one I didn’t immediately recognise, and clutched in his hand, only just visible, was what appeared at first to be a Dinky car, but closer inspection revealed to be a toy train.

  I felt a shiver run through me. Could this be the same train the social worker had alluded to in her initial report? No way of knowing without asking, and perhaps it was a long shot, but something about the way he held it – the very fact that he held it – told me there was a fair to middling chance it might be. He was also smiling shyly, squinting against the sunshine from beneath a long fringe. And the adults, both dressed for summer – him in shorts, her in a strappy maxi dress – were also smiling, a hand apiece on Miller’s skinny shoulders. He looked about six – perhaps seven, given how small he was for his age – and, for all the world as if his world was a happy one. At least then.

  It felt as if I’d been gifted something precious in seeing this. Almost as if destiny had decreed that it find its way into my hands. I wasn’t normally so fanciful, but given the train of my thoughts the previous evening, I had a sense of it whispering to me – a new voice, to drown out the others – saying, ‘See, Casey. See? Now commit this to memory. This is the child you are trying to do your best for. So do try. Don’t give up on him now.’

  I heard Miller yawn then, and braced for the inevitable explosion. His privacy was sacrosanct, and he guarded it obsessively. Though the suitcase this had presumably come from was often open when he was in there, when he wasn’t it was locked and safely stashed against the wall, under his bed. I had no idea where he hid the key to the tiny padlock – only that I doubted I’d ever find it with turning his room upside down. And, most importantly, we both knew I wouldn’t dream of looking in it without permission in any case.

  I turned around to see him shuffling up to a sitting position, yawning and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. How would he react to seeing the picture in mine?

  Here goes nothing, I thought, I had nothing to lose, after all. But, to my surprise, when I crossed the room and pulled back one of the curtains, he said nothing – even though I saw him clock it.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I asked, sitting down on the edge of the b
ed again. ‘They look nice.’

  He held a hand out for the picture. ‘That’s Neen and Rob,’ he said, taking it. I noticed how gently he moved a thumb across the face of it.

  ‘Neen and Rob?’ They weren’t his parents. They couldn’t be, could they? Though I was still to get my hands on a complete timeline of his history in care, I was pretty sure there had been little contact with them since they surrendered him. Besides, I just knew they weren’t – not just from the body language, or the names. But because I knew his birth father had been a man of fifty-eight. This was a young couple. A foster couple? I imagined so.

  He nodded, still sleepy, still not quite fully Miller. ‘My foster mum and dad,’ he said.

  His only ones? The most important ones, obviously. ‘They look nice,’ I said again. ‘When was this taken?’

  ‘On holidays.’

  ‘At the seaside?’ I ventured, hardly daring to believe this might continue. It felt like an opening, but a slim one. Unstable. One wrong move, one wrong tone, and it could so easily slam shut.

  He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on the photograph. ‘No, in the country. In a caravan. In a holiday park. We went twice,’ he carried on. ‘This was the second time. I was in a football tournament.’

  ‘Hence the strip,’ I said. ‘Did you win?’

  He shook his head. ‘We came second. I was in a team with a bunch of retards. But I scored a goal in the final. They gave me man of the match.’

  I hardly dared speak now, for fear that something would break the spell. But since he didn’t continue – lost in precious memories of that special moment? – I ventured a finger towards the photograph.

  ‘And what’s that in your hand? Was it something you won?’

  ‘Nah, that’s just my train,’ he said, placing the picture down on the duvet. ‘I got a trophy, but I forgot to take it with me when I left.’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘For the home.’

  My mind was whirring now. ‘For the home?’