by Casey Watson
Miller nodded a meek yes; pulled the duvet up to his chin. He looked exactly what he was beneath the brittle carapace he’d fashioned. A little boy. The little monkey of Libby’s fond imaginings. And, for a moment, I saw him. He sighed theatrically. Too theatrically. The moment was lost. ‘Oh, well, then,’ he drawled. ‘I suppose you’re going to ground me now, then, are you?’
I heard myself laugh. ‘Ground you? You never leave the bloody house, Miller. So what would be the point? No, I’m not going to ground you.’
Then the penny fully dropped. He was playing me. Using classic misdirection. Keeping my focus on him – now across the room, trite, tucked into bed – to keep me from looking elsewhere. To the lighter and pack of cigarettes that were still on the windowsill. Not to mention the pile of remaining unburnt papers that were outside the window, neatly stacked on the window ledge, out of sight behind the curtains.
So that’s where he’d hidden them. Cursing myself for not thinking hard enough, I grabbed them all. ‘Tyler’s college things, I presume?’ I asked, holding them up. I also crushed up the pack of cigarettes so he could see they were ruined. Then, as my grand finale, I picked up both the remote control for the TV and the control pad for his console. Even though we had been here (and been here, and been here, and been here) these were still the only two things he truly coveted. To leave them would be a dereliction of duty. ‘I will let you know when I decide you can have these back,’ I told him. ‘Now stay in that bed, and, so help me God, if I hear you out of it, it will be months before you get to play those games again.’
‘I don’t want to play them anyway!’ he shot back, in what he presumably decided would make for an impressive parting shot.
I couldn’t let it go. I was so angry that I simply couldn’t walk away and let it go.
‘Don’t play any more games, Miller,’ I said. ‘Seriously, don’t bother. No point playing games that you’re never going to win.’ I pulled the door to. Not shut. ‘And, trust me on this, okay? You won’t win.’
Chapter 17
I woke up the next morning with a taste in my mouth. Not of cigarettes, though after dispatching Miller’s stolen ones, the smell had definitely lingered. No, it was the taste of failure. Of having lost it. Of having handled things badly.
Of course, I’d told Mike as soon as he’d woken up about the early hours disruption, and he was obviously as angry as I’d been. But even as I outlined the furious exchanges I’d had with Miller in the wee hours, I could see his expression begin to change.
‘Casey, you’re missing the point here entirely.’
‘What?’ I said, shocked by his slightly exasperated tone. ‘I am finally at the point, Mike. The point where I’ve flipping well had enough of it. This game-playing. This manipulation. This –’
‘Love, listen to yourself. You’ve just proved it. You are entirely missing the point. Don’t you get it? Don’t you understand that had you not woken up, he could have burned the whole bloody house down? I mean seriously, think about it. Just one stray bit of burning paper, and the whole room could have gone up. And the rest of the house – with all of us in it – for that matter!’
‘Yes, Mike, of course I know that,’ I said. But as soon as I’d said it, I knew it for the untruth it was. God. He was right, I had entirely missed the point. I’d been so busy being furious that I’d forgotten to be scared. Hadn’t given a single thought, not in the heat of the moment, to the terrifying ‘what if’ of what was so clearly a highly dangerous situation. Had I become so habituated to the actions of this deeply disturbed child that his potentially setting the house ablaze was only a secondary consideration? Had my ‘normal’ barometer got that badly out of kilter?
‘Of course I know that,’ I said again, more to convince myself than anything. ‘And I made it very clear to him, believe me.’
But had I? Had I really? I had not. Not at all. I’d been so wrapped up in rescuing Tyler’s precious papers, and in outmanoeuvring Miller in his power-plays, that the words ‘burn the house down’ hadn’t even crossed my mind. Let alone passed my lips.
‘Seriously,’ I said again. ‘And I’ll be phoning Christine Bolton as soon as you’ve left for work, and his social worker. And I’ve removed his TV remote and his controller. But other than all of that, what else can I do?’
Mike got out of bed and headed for the shower. ‘I’m not sure, Case,’ he said, ‘but we need to do something. Just imagine if one of the grandkids had been sleeping over – Christ, it doesn’t bear thinking about. For a start, you’ll have to search every inch of that room to make sure there’s no other lighters or matches in there, then we really need to think about the risks of having Miller with us, full stop. I mean, honestly.’ He turned around and locked eyes with me. ‘Is it worth carrying on with this? Really?’
And that was the million-dollar question. The same question that countless other foster carers had faced before us. The same question that came up for foster carers everywhere. I already knew the answer they had come up with in Miller’s case. They had taken the decision to take back their normality, and Miller, as a consequence, had been discarded. Moved on.
And Miller himself had no doubt worked very hard to achieve that. Must have pushed and pushed and pushed before finally getting his marching orders. That was what he did. Started every new placement like a project – like an undercover mission he’d accepted from some evil overlord – already, as soon as he set foot in a place, furiously working out how he could end it.
That, I realised, was the handle, was the still unbroken thread. As he’d already worked out that no one would ever want him, there was no point in acting any differently than he did. In his mind, it was simply a new variant – a new level – on the game he’d been playing, and winning, for years.
How did it go with Pandora, and that box she had opened? That in doing so, all the evils of the world had been released. And all that had remained in there was hope.
Not so with Miller. He’d left the box open, and that too had flown. And if you didn’t have hope – that things might one day turn around for you – then what did you have left to run with? Nothing. Just the satisfaction of achieving that clichéd self-fulfilling prophecy. He truly was a boy without hope.
***
Once Mike had left for work, I did as I’d promised him I would. I emailed reports to everyone I needed to, then phoned Libby and Christine to follow them up.
Libby, as I expected, made all the right (and usual) noises; Miller was such a little monkey, and of course she understood the challenges we faced. And then reassured me that all would be well after the weekend, when he started at his new school, and, ‘You’ll be able to get your life back again. At least you’ll have all those hours of peace every day, won’t you?’ she trilled. ‘And without the added worry that you might get the dreaded phone call from them, to say he’s been excluded and you have to go get him. What a bonus that is, eh? That they have that sort of policy? You can plan shopping trips, days out, whatever you like.’
So, I thought, Libby’s solution to my dilemma was to adopt an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ attitude. Brilliant. What Libby didn’t dwell on was that even if this was an acceptable answer – which it wasn’t – then I only had two weeks of this sort of respite, then it was the school summer holidays. Six whole weeks stretching ahead of us. What then?
It was Christine Bolton I posed that question to, not Libby.
‘God, I absolutely agree with you, Casey,’ she said, in her soft lilt. ‘And his social worker really needs to be doing something about it – planning for it now, so that it’s already in place for when you need it. Never mind the Helping Hands project or whatever they were called, she needs to access every resource out there, and we both know they are out there, and those summer holidays need to be structured and organised right from the off. This child will not leave the house with you without a fight, he’s causing chaos in the home, and he’s leaving you with no alternative but to take away the only things h
e has to do in the house. So what’s left? Not a whole lot, that’s what. And it’s neither your responsibility nor your fault.’
Quite a speech from Christine, I thought. Yes, it still needed making to Libby, as opposed to just me. But, as I’d listened, I’d felt something that I hadn’t up to now. And it was confidence. Early days, but it was definitely confidence – that she was onside, on my wavelength – that she had my back. That there was a chance that, in time, we would reach the sort of professional relationship I’d enjoyed with my much-missed John Fulshaw. Even friendship. Please let it be so.
And she was also spot on. Which gave me hope that she genuinely understood our daily battles, and the many frustrations involved. She also agreed with Mike that a full strip search of Miller’s room was officially now in order (finally) and also offered to arrange a visit from a fire officer, to have a stern word with Miller about the danger he’d put us all in. ‘They show them some quite horrendous videos of house fires,’ she said, ‘and in my experience, it usually does the trick. In fact, the kids are quite often traumatised after seeing some of the images, but that’s far better than them getting excited about playing around with fire.’
I thought that was a brilliant idea, and asked her to, yes, please, arrange it, and we also scheduled a catch-up between ourselves on the Monday morning, the first day Miller would be at school.
Well, hopefully.
***
I’d only just got off the phone when I heard the front door opening. It was still only 9.30 a.m. by this time – I’d packed a lot in – so I was surprised to see Tyler walk in. I braced myself to explain about what had happened to his college papers, and I did manage most of it, but before I could get to the fire safety visit I’d organised, he held up a hand and said, ‘Mum, listen.’
It hit me then that he’d been waiting patiently all along, to be allowed to speak. ‘What love? What’s up?’ I asked.
‘Nothing’s up. Not exactly. It’s just – look, please don’t be angry with me, Mum – but I’ve asked Kieron and Lauren if I can stay with them for a bit. Whoah … don’t look like that. Just for a couple of weeks or so, okay? Just till … well, just till things are sorted out a bit more with Miller. I mean … well … it’s not working as things are, is it? I’m just, well, constantly wound up and it’s just getting worse. It’s like … well, I know you’ll think it sounds mad, and I know lots of the kids you take in are just challenging ...’ He smiled. ‘Me, for instance. But he’s different. He seems to have a thing about me, seriously. It’s almost like he’s doing everything he can to make me go for him. Like he’s got a plan on. Like he wants me to hit him.’
Even if he didn’t know it, the truth of his words hit me like a sledgehammer. But what hit home the most painfully was the other thing he’d said. That he was leaving. He was going to stay with Kieron and Lauren. That, because of Miller, who I’d just told in no uncertain terms that I was not giving up on, my own son, my beloved son, didn’t want to be here any more. I felt tears spring to my eyes and begin to cloud my vision. And a whump of empathy for every foster carer who’d been here before me. Who the hell did I think I was, thinking I could succeed where they’d failed? This was exactly the sort of reason why every foster carer who ‘failed’ failed. Basic love and priorities stuff. And stultifying guilt.
‘But, sweetheart, this is your home,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to leave. I really don’t, Ty. Please don’t. We’ll work it out. We’ve got the school sorted, and I’ve been giving them hell down at social services, and –’
Tyler shut me up by wrapping his long, strong arms around me. ‘Mum, don’t be so wet. I’m not leaving home.’ He laughed then. ‘Kieron told me you’d think that. But honestly, I’m not. It’s just for a little bit. An extended sleepover. This will always be my home. I just think that, right now, you and Dad need to concentrate on Miller without having to worry about how I’ll react, and to be honest, it’ll be better for him, me not being here, because honestly, yesterday, I did nearly hit him and that’s just not me. Is it? I just need a bit of time away from him, that’s all.’
I looked at this boy who had lived within our home and our hearts for five years now. Who saw us as his parents, because we were now. And my heart swelled with pride. He was such a thoughtful young man, and I loved him so much. I also, despite my tears, understood.
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ I said, as I reached up and kissed his forehead. ‘Of course you can stay with Kieron for a bit, but I feel so bad that you feel you have to. You know there absolutely wouldn’t be a choice, don’t you? That we would end this placement now – right this minute – if it meant breaking up our family.’
Tyler kissed my cheek and grinned. ‘Gawd, Mum, listen to yourself. You’re not in an episode of one of your flipping soap operas. Nothing’s “breaking up”, as you put it. I’m just going to spend a couple of weeks round Kieron and Lauren’s – who are very happy to have a babysitter on tap, trust me – so that you can make sure you see this one through. If I don’t, I’ll end up thumping him, then all hell will break loose, and then he’ll have won, won’t he? And you’ll let him go, and feel terrible. Like you’ve failed him. Even though you won’t have. Now stop your blubbing and help me sort some clothes out so I can go back down to Kieron’s before the not-so-clever pyrotechnician gets up. I’ll probably be back as soon as all my clothes are dirty anyway.’
I managed a laugh then and replaced my loving hug with a punch. ‘You probably will too,’ I said. And he probably would too. Which made me feel a bit better. ‘Okay, you take the bedroom and I’ll check the ironing pile, and fetch that little suitcase down from under your bed.’
‘Thanks for understanding, Mum,’ Tyler said, as he headed for the stairs, ‘and don’t worry, I’ll be quiet. I won’t wake Miller up.’
I didn’t really want to dwell on the fact just yet. It hurt like hell that Tyler was moving out, no matter how temporary it might be. It just didn’t bear thinking about. And I had to stop myself doing so. For the moment, I had to concentrate on the here and now. The immediate future. The future which, since Miller came to us, I was measuring in hours, rather than days. Days, rather than weeks. I couldn’t do anything else, because the longer term was too complicated to contemplate. All I could do was hope for the best for Monday, hope something changed for the better as a result of him attending this frankly almost-too-good-to-believe school, and that Tyler deemed it safe to come back to us. I wasn’t some air-headed believer in fairy godmothers, but if Mr Hammond donned a twinkly frock I thought he’d make a good one. I bloody hoped so. The thought made me smile at least.
It was almost lunchtime before I decided I would tackle Miller. Well, not so much Miller as Miller’s bedroom. And I would be true to my word. I’d promised Mike I’d give it the full CSI treatment, and I intended to. With or without Miller’s co-operation.
Assuming he even woke up, after the extent of his night-time fun and games. Tyler by now had long gone – and heartbreakingly, too, with his case in his hand and his guitar slung across his back, like he was off on some road trip across America. Much as Mike and I ribbed him about it, the house would feel so silent without his endless twanging, and I grew tearful all over again just thinking about it.
Christine Bolton – spit spot! – had also phoned back to say the fire service would be sending a man round tomorrow afternoon, to impart some fire-related home truths to Miller. But of Miller himself, there had been no sight or sound.
Nevertheless, as I marched upstairs – extra loud, to herald my imminent arrival – there was still this sense of being braced for a difficult confrontation, Confrontation with a diminutive twelve-year-old-boy – honestly!
Get your act together, girl! I told myself as I reached the landing, prepared for argument, prepared for attitude, prepared to be resolute and determined in my attitude, prepared for anything apart from what I found.
Which was a seemingly empty room. And within it, a perfectly made-up bed, as if it hadn’t
been slept in at all. And, to my shock, absolutely no sign of Miller.
My heart began thumping in my chest then, my mind quickly tossing around various possibilities. Could he be in the bathroom? No. I’d seen the door wide open as I came up. Could he have made his bed and gone out early for a walk or something? No, don’t be ridiculous, Casey – he didn’t do any of those things, ever. Could he have run away from home? That was the question I didn’t want to ask myself. Because, given his history, that was the only question with a likely correct answer. And it all fitted. I’d called him out, and he’d scarpered. I tried to steady my breathing as I sat down on the edge of the bed. Think, Casey, think. Think like he might.
So I sat and thought, and it wasn’t long before I noticed something strange. That the old wooden wardrobe – a family heirloom that had been in service for years now – had a small chunk missing from one of the doors, about four inches from the bottom. I craned my neck forwards to look more closely at it. I had no idea when or how, but a hole had been neatly carved out of it. Almost like a spy hole for a giant mouse. My first instinct was annoyance. Had he been destroying our property too?
I got up and moved towards it, bending down to inspect it. And almost jumped out of my skin.
‘Stop!’
It was whisper, but a very loaded whisper.
What the …? ‘Miller? Is that you in there?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Please do not open the door.’
What the hell was this all about? I retreated and sat back on the bed again. I knew he could see me through the newly carved hole, but what on earth was he doing in there? Was this some kind of childish response to being castigated? Sort of ‘if I stay in here long enough it’ll all go away’?
