by Casey Watson
With no idea how long John would be chatting to Spencer, I prepped everything but resisted the urge to start cooking. Mike would be home soon but they might be in there for an hour. As it was, though, only 20 minutes passed before I heard the door open, disgorging only John.
‘All’s well,’ he said, in response to my enquiring expression. ‘I just wanted to check something with you. I’ve agreed he can start going out to play again next week – provided you’re happy that he has sufficient points, obviously – but I wondered if you’d agree to him having half an hour today, while we have a chat. A gesture of trust, I thought.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Now?’
John nodded. ‘Spencer!’ At which he was out like a shot, almost knocking me over in a clumsy and unexpected hug. ‘Aw, thanks, Casey. I promise I’ll be good and come back an’ that. Just half an hour, okay? Don’t you worry!’
‘He seems really determined to try and be good,’ John said, once I’d poured us both another coffee and we’d sat down at the dining table. ‘He’s agreed to seeing a support worker once a week, which is great. Penny Creswell – have you come across her?’ I shook my head. ‘She’s great. Background in psychology and lots of experience working with kids with anger management problems, so I think it’ll be a good match.’
‘That’s good news,’ I agreed. ‘What else did you cover?’
‘Oh, probably pretty much the same sort of thing as you. Just tried to get across how he’s got to rein in. How easy it would be to get a name with the police, and how damaging that could be for his future. Plus the dangers he faces by running off on his own all the time, on which point I think I hammered my point home pretty well. It’s funny, though – I had to keep reminding myself he’s only eight. Sometimes it felt like I was talking to a young teenager.’
No shit, Sherlock! I thought, but obviously didn’t say. ‘Tell me about it,’ I responded instead. ‘But what about tomorrow? His home visit. Did you cover that at all? We spoke about it earlier in the week and he seemed genuinely convinced he was going for a sleepover.’
‘I know,’ John replied. ‘And we discussed all that at length. I think I’ve managed to impress upon him how that’s only going to happen if he can prove to us he can be grown up and responsible – no runners – before we can even go there.’
‘There’s something else,’ I said. ‘Something that’s been playing on my mind. When I told him it wasn’t going to be sleepovers for a while yet, he was really upset – upset that he’d been good and got out from under his mum’s feet. Not run off at all – just “got out from under her feet”. He also intimated that coming into care was something he’d agreed to, not instigated. I feel sure there’s something going on with that family that we don’t know. That there’s more than this “out of control kid” thing going on. I don’t want to start interrogating him, but I’m sure there’s something major going on with his mother that he’s not telling us. What d’you think?’
John spread his palms. ‘I probably know less about them than you do, to be honest. They’ve never been known to social services, so there’s nothing on file. Shall I have a word with Glenn?’
‘I’d be grateful,’ I said. ‘I’m just worried his mum is manipulating him in some way. And if she does have a drink problem, then …’
‘A drink problem? Is that on record? I wasn’t aware …’
‘No, no. Well, not as far as I know. Sorry, John. I hadn’t mentioned that to you, had I? And I’m not even sure it should be on record. I don’t want to throw accusations around without facts. It’s just that, between you and me, when we dropped Spencer off there the last time, well, Kerry just appeared to be a bit out of sorts, and well, we could smell the alcohol on her at the door. It might have been a one-off, of course, but it’s just something that Mike and I discussed as a possibility. I’m not sure –’
The side door slammed then, so I shut up, and John drained his coffee. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said as Spencer bounced in, grinning and red faced.
‘See. I told you!’ he beamed, obviously proud of himself. He lifted the wrist with his watch on. ‘Connor begged me to stay out a bit longer, but I said no. I told him, “Connor, I have to go in now. You’ll just have to play with someone else till the next time.” He didn’t like it –’ Spencer now spread his own palms, theatrically, as he glanced at us in turn. ‘But what can you do?’
John laughed out loud as he stood up to put on his coat. ‘Such a caring soul, you are, Spence. And a human dynamo to boot! Wish I had your energy on a Friday afternoon. Next time I’m up, perhaps we can have a kick-about together, eh? I’d like a dose of whatever it is you’re running on! Something I could bottle, to see me through the week.’
Spencer beamed at this, and I felt a real surge of positivity. Which could have done with bottling as well, as it turned out, and then laid down, like a fine wine, to keep in reserve for later. I should have realised it wasn’t going to last.
Saturday morning, however, saw us still full of hope, as we arrived at Spencer’s parents’ house bright and early. Not that it was bright. It was actually a pretty damp late October morning, the sort of day that seems to presage the gloom of the coming winter, but is still too far away from Christmas to feel even vaguely festive. Just grey and grim and cheerless, the trees devoid of colour, their leaves a soggy brown carpet on the ground.
Spencer, however, was in high spirits – had been since the previous evening – and ran eagerly up the path to where his dad waited at the door. ‘Hi, Dad,’ he said brightly, pushing past him. ‘Where’s Mum?’
His dad laughed and shook his head. ‘Now there’s one eager beaver!’ he said cheerfully. ‘He seems in a good mood,’ he observed as Spencer disappeared down the hall.
‘It’s been a good week,’ I confirmed. ‘It really does feel as if we’re making progress. He’s –’
‘And long may it continue,’ Spencer’s dad answered, interrupting me. ‘Right, four o’clock again, is it?’
Mike had barely inclined his head in a confirming nod before Spencer’s father had stepped back inside, almost shutting the door in our faces.
‘That’s one strange family,’ Mike whispered as we went back down the path, both a bit shocked at the abruptness of our parting. ‘He’s all so jolly, and then, whump, we’ve been dismissed. But come on, let’s make the most of our time off today, shall we?’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘B&Q, here we come …’
I pulled a face at this. DIY stores weren’t much of a highlight in my life. I suppose we were a pretty traditional couple. Mike loved looking at drills and other stupid things like that, whereas I loved nothing better than to shop for clothes and handbags. But I had to let him have his turn occasionally, I conceded. In fact I’d agreed much less reluctantly than I might have, based on a thought that had occurred to me. At this time of year all the big DIY superstores gave over loads of floor space to Christmas decorations, and if there was one thing I loved as much as shopping for food and handbags, it was Christmas and all that went with it. So I was happier than I might have been. Quite jaunty, in fact. I could immerse myself in fairy lights while he pored over power tools. Every cloud, and all that, I thought, as I climbed into the car.
I was also confident that John’s feelings about Spencer were right, that he understood now how important this visit was going to be. So it was in a completely chilled mood, after a lovely, relaxing lunch, that I climbed out of the car again, on our return, on the dot of four.
It was a mood that would be shattered in an instant.
Danny Herrington was already standing on the doorstep, and in stark contrast to his sunny disposition when we’d dropped Spencer that morning he now stood there grim faced, arms folded, with the door shut behind him. What was it about this man and his reluctance to open his front door? What was his house – Fort bloody Knox? Which thought put another thought – a bad one – in my head. We hurried up the path to see him clutching a piece of paper, which, as we approached him, he thrust
out towards us.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Mike, striding up to him. ‘Where’s Spencer?’
‘You’ve to ring that number,’ he said. ‘It’s the police. They’re expecting to hear from you. Spencer ran off half an hour back.’
His expression was stony. Clearly something bad had happened.
‘What?’ I said. ‘I don’t believe this. He was so happy to be coming home today. What on earth happened to make him run off again?’
Once again I was conscious of the lack of Spencer’s mother. Where was she right now, come to that? And what was her part in all this?
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Watson,’ Spencer’s father said, frowning. ‘It was quite serious, I’m afraid. I had to call the police myself.’
‘Call the police? What, because of something he’d done? Why on earth –’ Mike began, as stunned as I was.
‘I’m afraid he attacked his mother. Quite violently. I can’t be having that. Not in front of the other kids, can I? Hit on the head. With a brick …’
I realised suddenly that he seemed to be trying not to cry, that the stony expression was just a product of him trying to hold himself together. Oh God, I thought, suddenly feeling so sorry for the man. The whole family. The other kids … I simply couldn’t understand it.
‘What happened?’ I asked again, this time more gently. ‘Mike, love, why don’t you get on and give the police our number?’
‘It all happened so fast,’ Spencer’s dad said. ‘He was out in the garden playing with Coral and Harvey – they’re our youngest – and he must have picked the stone up and –’
‘Stone?’ I said, feeling more hopeful. ‘Not a brick?’
‘Well, half a brick,’ he said. ‘I’ve been doing some work in the garden. And, well, I don’t know what caused it, but next thing I knew, all hell had broken loose in the kitchen – Kerry had called them all in for squash and biscuits. And he was having a right go at his mother – goodness knows why. So I stepped in to try and calm him down, and next thing I know he’s pulled this brick out and smashed her over the head with it. He was off then, of course.’ Danny Herrington sighed deeply. ‘Down the garden, over the fence, and I’m afraid that’s the last we’ve seen of him. Kerry’s too upset to come down and talk to you. I’m sorry.’ He looked down, clearly upset. ‘She’s having to have a lie down.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, too,’ I said, on autopilot. I felt stupidly responsible. ‘I don’t know what to say …’
Mike was finishing up speaking to the police by this time. ‘Yes, we’re setting off home now,’ he was confirming. ‘About an hour. Yes, we’ll wait to hear. Thanks …’ he ended the call. He looked at Spencer’s dad. ‘No news as yet, as you probably worked out. We’ll obviously let you know the minute we hear anything.’ He shook his head, obviously feeling as helpless as I did about the whole sorry situation.
So did Danny Herrington, his shoulders slumped, his look defeated. And as we left the house my thoughts strayed up those stairs to where his wife was. Inebriated, maybe? Needing to keep a low profile? Or was she really hurt and upset about the day’s events? I so needed to know more about Spencer’s mother.
I felt devastated all the way home. What could possibly have happened to make Spencer do that? I know I’d seen evidence of a cruel streak, and anger. But what had triggered it? What had his mother said or done? I’d had long experience with kids whose mothers mistreated them. I had seen first hand how neglect, cruelty, drug abuse or just plain old chaotic parenting caused kids to develop anger that could take them off the scale. What was going on in this case? Had anything tangible gone on? Or was this just Spencer being Spencer – in which case, what was the root of his rage? If we didn’t know that, how on earth could we help him?
Thank goodness he’d been fixed up with a support worker, I thought. Perhaps she could begin to tease out some answers. And she needed to, because right now I had none. I felt like I was running out of resources, and fast.
We stayed up till two in the end, waiting for a call that didn’t come. Mike even called, just to check they had got the right numbers, only to be told that they were sorry, but they’d not found Spencer yet.
It was horrifying. Eight years old. I couldn’t shake off the number. He was eight and he was somewhere on the streets, all alone. No nice chippy men around to help at two in the morning. Just the potential for danger at every turn. I slept only fitfully and when I did sleep I had nightmares, bookended by periods of lying awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining poor little Spencer hidden away somewhere, shivering in the cold, frightened and alone.
I must have eventually dozed off, though, because I woke with a start, hearing my alarm. It was Sunday morning, eight o’clock, and there had still been no call.
It wasn’t a nightmare I’d just woken up from. It was all too real, and I was still living it.
Chapter 14
Mike had already gone downstairs so I pulled on my dressing gown and hurried down to find out if there’d been any news. But it only took one look at his face to know there hadn’t, and tears of frustration began welling in my eyes. Much as Spencer had challenged us – on so many occasions, and in so many ways – and much as he’d done things that were less than endearing, I really felt for this difficult and complicated boy, and the thought of him sleeping rough – and on our watch – really upset me. Didn’t matter in the least how apparently streetwise he was. It was all wrong.
‘I just wish I thought his mother even cared,’ I sniffed, as Mike drew me in for a hug.
‘Come on, love,’ he said. ‘I know it’s worrying, but he’ll be fine. I’m completely sure of it. Look, I’ve made coffee, so why don’t you grab yourself one.’ He paused, as if undecided about what he was about to say. ‘And go and have a cigarette, if you think it’ll help you. Go on. You look like you could do with one. I’ll go and make another call to the police.’
Mike suggesting I have a cigarette? He must think I’m in a right state, I thought miserably, as I trudged out to the conservatory with my emergency supply. I’d been doing brilliantly – would continue to do brilliantly, I knew – but though I felt a bit guilty I also felt grateful for his understanding. Looking out into the garden I could see that the weather was as dismal as I currently felt. It was barely light, the sky grey, the wind blowing mournfully. Altogether not a night for a young child to be sleeping rough. Not that any night was a night for a young child to be sleeping rough. I just prayed that Spencer had been holed up somewhere warm. I thought about when my own kids had been small. I wouldn’t have let them anywhere near the streets at that age. Why was it that these days everything had changed so much?
I’d downed one coffee and had headed back inside to get a second cup when the doorbell went. I ran into the hall just in time to see Mike opening the door to two policemen and – praise be! – also Spencer.
I must still have been feeling more emotional than I thought, because seeing him standing there made my tears well up all over again. ‘Oh, Spencer!’ I cried, running to fling my arms around him. ‘Oh, love, we’ve been frantic. Where’ve you been?’
I knelt down in the hall in my PJs and dressing gown, hugged him, kissed his cheeks and rubbed his back. I couldn’t begin to describe how relieved I was to see him. All of which clearly mortified him, particularly as there was already a gaggle of small onlookers outside, keen to see why a police car had fetched up.
I let him go then, and he scurried inside, obviously keen not to have his reputation as a hard nut sullied any further, while Mike shut the door and ushered the policemen into the living room.
And it seemed that, in terms of finding Spencer, they’d had a lucky break. They’d still be looking for him, one told us, if he hadn’t had the misfortune – or, more accurately, even if he didn’t think so, good fortune – to try to pinch a packet of biscuits from a shopkeeper at the end of his tether.
This had happened earlier in the morning, when Spencer, by now pretty hungry, had decided to visit the corner shop
near his parents in search of something he could have for breakfast. And he probably would have got away with it if it hadn’t been for the fact that there was a new proprietor, who obviously didn’t know Spencer, and was sick and tired of having his shop targeted by the local kids on a daily basis, and had decided he was standing for it no more.
‘By all accounts,’ said one of the officers, ‘he physically held on to this young man from the time he called us to the time we arrived, 20 minutes later …’
‘An’ he slapped me, an all!’ protested Spencer. ‘Round the head! An’ all for a measly packet of biscuits.’
‘Thieving’s thieving, young man,’ the other officer reminded him sternly. ‘Though no charges have been pressed,’ he added, turning to Mike and me, ‘since no harm’s been done and the boy’s said he’s sorry. I don’t think it’s likely he’ll be trying it again.’
I had my own thoughts about that, of course, but of much more concern to me was where he’d been and why he’d run off in the first place.
‘Because I had to!’ he protested. ‘Because they were, like, proper kicking off.’
‘Who were?’ I wanted to know.
‘My mum and dad. It was fine at first. An’ I was being good, honest I was, Casey. Just playing in the garden with my little brother and sister. And then it kicked off. It was when they wanted to go in to get something to eat. So I’m like calling to my dad – he was by the back door, doing something to the patio, talking to Mum – an’ I’m saying, “Can we have a biscuit or something?” and Coral’s like, “You can’t. You don’t even live here any more.” An’ then she pushes me and laughs, going na na ne na na and all that, and I swear I didn’t do anything …’
‘And?’ I asked him, conscious that he was becoming increasingly agitated.
‘An’ I dunno,’ he said. ‘Just that next thing, me mum’s out in the garden, saying, “Did you hit her? Did you hit her? You hit her! Admit it.” And goin’ proper mental at me all of a sudden, and I’m like, “Dad saw. I didn’t hit her. I never touched her.”’ His cheeks were red now. ‘I NEVER touched her! Honest, Casey, honest, Mike. I never ever touched her.’
