by Casey Watson
‘So what’s happening now, then?’ I asked John, my own coffee mug still half-full, but cold.
John cleared his throat again. ‘What’s happening is that she wants her son back. Though, knowing what we now know, it’s obviously not that straightforward. She has the younger two with her at the refuge, and her sister is fostering the older two – the nine- and ten-year-olds – while a plan of action’s drawn up. She’ll be housed, of course, but almost everything depends on her actually following through on the charges she’s brought against her husband –’
‘He’s let that happen, then? Let her take the children? Does he know where they are?’
‘Didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, really. He’s been charged with one assault – and there are more charges to follow – and Kerry has taken out an injunction against him. This means he can’t go anywhere near her or he’ll be charged further, obviously, but as for the kids, social services have taken precautionary measures. All four of them are now classed as ‘at risk’, and for the time being at least Danny has been told that he can’t have contact. Not while all this is going on, anyway. He’ll need to put in his own applications for contact via a solicitor and the courts, presumably.
‘But you know the score, Casey. How many times do we see these things not being followed through? Which is why, as of right now, Spencer mustn’t know anything. Mustn’t even have an inkling. I know you’d love to be able to give him something positive to cling on to, but if it falls through … Because the whole thing’s still a pretty big ask. But I’m hopeful. So far she’s been true to her word on the drinking – joined AA, and that – and I’m told she’s equally determined about Spencer. And I believe her. So if she can crack it, there’s light at the end of the tunnel. A tiny glimmer of light, anyway. Let’s just hope things haven’t gone too far.’
I spent a while after John had gone, sitting at my laptop, and going through my journal, thinking about Spencer’s anger towards his mother, his lack of empathy, his compulsive need to do bad things, his streak of cruelty. Would the psychologist who’d seen him have come to a different conclusion if he’d known everything I knew now? No wonder Spencer had such enormous issues to deal with. He’d been paying for having had the misfortune to be born from the day he’d arrived on the planet. How did you process a reality in which your father routinely mistreated you and showed his hate for you (that bruising he’d first appeared with at social services with, for instance?), while your mum – the one person in the world you should be able to rely on – just stood there and let it happen, because she was too busy drinking away her own pain, too afraid to do anything and, perhaps, regretting the day she’d given birth to him?
That, I thought grimly, as I shut down the computer, was an altogether much bigger ask.
Chapter 23
I was fit to burst by the time Spencer had gone to bed that evening and I was at last able to fill Mike in properly. He was as gobsmacked as I was – it was such a lot to take in. Not to mention being so at odds with everything about the family we’d so far seen and been told. No wonder, we kept repeating to each other. No wonder. The poor child. What a grim hand of cards he’d started life with. We agreed we almost didn’t want to allow ourselves to hope. If there was a chance of it working out, then that would be the best news imaginable, but given the number of damaged – and damaging – people in this equation, it still felt much more likely that in the end nothing would come of this news. Spencer’s mother, even if she had the best of intentions, would probably be too far gone to deal with her own demons, and now that Danny Herrington had been flagged up as the villain of the piece, and the other children classified as at risk, the outcome might actually be little different for Spencer. The only difference, we speculated grimly, might be that it was no longer just Spencer coming into the hands of social services. With the entire family blown apart, it might be that all the children ended up in care.
But it was important we get back to the business at hand, which was the fact of Spencer’s crime spree and the consequences it would have for him. Which in the short term, the police had decided, following their outing, would be for him to pay a visit to the station to be formally interviewed and charged. That such a thing could happen to so young a child appalled me. And now I knew what I knew, I felt zealously protective towards him. Mike, however, took a different view.
‘I’m going to take a half-day off work,’ he decided, ‘so that it’s me that goes with him. If it’s me rather than you, it’ll seem that much more serious. And if you stay at home, too, even more so. Because that’s what this is about, love: putting the fear of ruddy God into him. That’s all they really want to do. It’ll all seem very official, but I doubt they’re going to actually do anything. Just hopefully put him right off the idea of a life of crime.’
Come Monday morning, therefore, it was Mike who took charge once again, and all I could do was stay at home and fret about what might be happening. And when the post came, and with it our first clutch of Christmas cards, I realised that the festivities couldn’t have been further from our minds. Instead, it felt like our whole lives were in limbo. We knew all this stuff about Spencer’s family, which we could do nothing with – we couldn’t even tell him – we had the ongoing business with the police to contend with, and where normally our own family lives would be the one reassuring constant, right now we were contemplating moving out of our home. It was all horribly disorientating, and I hated it.
But on the plus side, the post had also brought a letter from the letting agents, containing details of a couple of properties to rent that might suit us. And as I looked at all the details, I felt my spirits slowly lifting. One of the properties, a four-bedroom semi, was only about three miles from our current home. It was in a much quieter, leafy area, in a good part of town, and right outside it was a huge grassy designated children’s play area and, at the edge of that, even a couple of small shops. It also had a really big garden, with mature trees and shrubs, so it was both private and would go a long way towards settling my anxiety about leaving my beloved blossom tree behind.
As I’d expected, my mood was dampened slightly on Mike and Spencer’s return. And as Mike explained the situation, it all sounded very serious. Because of the scale of Spencer’s wrongdoing, it had been decided to skip the usual stages of warning and reprimand, and instead to go to the final stage in the process. He’d actually been formally charged, and with a whopping 23 different offences. And, as Mike announced, with great gravity, released on bail.
I was stunned, but, to my relief, once Spencer went out for his precious hour of peer time in the snow, Mike explained that the consequences weren’t going to be as grim as I’d first feared. All that would happen, in all likelihood, would be that Spencer would be asked to have a couple of sessions with the youth-offending officer. Even so, this was something almost unheard of for a child this age, and we could only hope that these measures – put in place for that very reason – would go some way to minimising the risk of Spencer embarking on a life of crime.
The visit to the station had thrown up another development. Spencer hadn’t just been compulsively stealing, as a response to his distress. He’d actually been stealing to order, for a local fence – a teenage boy who, we were both dismayed to learn, lived on our very own street. And Spencer had apparently had no compunction about spilling beans and naming names. ‘He told the police everything,’ Mike recounted to me. ‘Almost proudly, as well. Literally everything: orders taken, goods delivered, payments made, and when the officer asked him what sort of payment he got for various things, it really hit home to me. “Oh, it depended on the gear,” he goes. “If it was just like toolboxes ’n’ stuff, I got a toy car or summat, but if it was really good stuff, like jewels or computer games, sometimes I got a pound!” Honest, Casey, it beggars belief.’
It was almost comic. Darkly comic, and once again I thought of Dickens, and Fagin, and how much this image of Spencer, running around doing his thieving to
order, conjured up the image of a modern-day Artful Dodger. But it was too dark. This was the reality of how easily a small child could be exploited and criminalised if left to fall prey to the sort of gangs that ran the streets.
The very streets we lived on, in fact. I smiled ruefully to myself. It seemed that every day brought fresh evidence that this house move would be no bad thing at all. And if we wanted evidence that it would definitely be no bad thing for Spencer, we were to get it, only ten minutes later.
We were still discussing the Herringtons, and how completely we’d been drawn into thinking of Danny Herrington as being Spencer’s guardian angel when he was, in fact, his nemesis, when the doorbell rang. I reacted as I always did these days, by feeling a knot form immediately in my stomach. But it wasn’t a disgruntled neighbour; it was one of the local children, a girl of about nine from further up the road.
‘Spencer’s already out, love,’ I explained, pointing. ‘Over there, with the others.’
‘I know,’ she said, with the sort of officiousness that girls her age were good at. ‘I just came to tell you he’s scaring all the little ones. He’s got some police letter an’ he’s telling them all they might go to jail.’
‘What?’ I said, rolling my eyes. Then the penny dropped. The little so and so must have managed to somehow sneak out his charge sheet, and was obviously now bragging about it amongst his friends. With the girl at my side I marched across to the huddle of kids across the street. ‘Spencer!’ I snapped crossly. ‘You know exactly what I’m here for. That charge sheet. And you, as well. Play time over. Inside NOW!’
So much for Mike thinking he’d be all contrite and anxious, I thought angrily, as I frogmarched him back across the street. So much for the gravity of the situation sinking in, either. I got him inside and let him have both barrels. Sometimes an old-fashioned bawling out was exactly what was needed even if, generally, I didn’t hold with too much shouting.
‘You just never learn, do you?’ I yelled at him. I couldn’t help it. ‘Only back from the police station for five minutes and you’re already out there thinking you’re something clever. What is it going to take for you to realise you’re in trouble? What is it going to take for you to realise you’re headed nowhere? Being a scummy, no-good criminal, who preys on nice, decent people, is not big and not remotely clever, you understand? It’s pathetic. It’s for fools and for idiots and morons! Do you want to completely wreck your life, is that it? Is that the plan here?’ I had my hands on his shoulders and had bent slightly, to be at eye level. ‘Answer me!’ I snapped again, my temper truly lost now. ‘IS it?’
I probably realised just what I’d said to him the same minute he did. And I could have kicked myself. How could he not wreck his life, as things stood? Because that was what he was best at. Being a wrecker. Hadn’t his mother already made that abundantly clear?
I watched the hard lines on his face soften into the crumples of imminent tears. And in that instant I realised that this simple encounter – his wrongdoing, my anger, this heated dressing down, the telling off – was such a staple of every childhood, because that’s how kids learned. But it was one, I suspected, that Spencer had completely lacked. Hadn’t he spent all his time wandering the streets, unchecked? He’d spoken the truth before. No one had ever really cared about him – certainly not enough to try and keep him on the right track.
‘I don’t know,’ he said suddenly, but less in anger than in anguish. ‘I don’t know why I do stuff I do. I just do!’
The tears plopped from his eyes and I gathered him in towards me. ‘I don’t want to be me any more, Casey. I hate me,’ he sobbed. ‘I’m sick of bein’ the devil’s prawn! I want to stop. I don’t wanna be that. I just want my mum and dad to want me back.’
‘It’s all right,’ I soothed. ‘It’s all right …’
‘But it’s not,’ he said, pulling back to look at me. His whole body, I realised, was shaking now. ‘It’s not fair! If they got too many kids, why can’t they get rid of one of the other ones now, and have ME back. Why? Why, Casey? WHY?’
It was obviously something that had preyed on his young mind from day one. And why wouldn’t it have? It must have been torture. Why him? What had he done? Why had he been singled out?
It was the biggest job imaginable not to be able to share what I knew with him. But not impossible, chiefly because I was still all too aware that, in terms of his future, it might still count for very little.
I was aware of Mike now, who’d obviously been standing in the doorway, hands in pockets. And knew he was thinking the same thing as me.
But I had to find something positive to get out of this situation, and, racking my brains as I hugged him and tried to calm him, I hit upon an idea: write some letters. I’d been here before, with so many children. Sit them down, give them space and help to order their thoughts, and have them put pen to paper. And old-fashioned process, but one that always seemed to help. And as experience had also shown me, it was help that could prove vital. Kids in this sort of emotional turmoil, reaching crisis point, as Spencer was, were actually in a very serious place. Their heads full of tangled thoughts, which they had no means to process, let alone try to explain to anyone, they could so easily, and catastrophically, implode. That was the real danger, and I was all too aware that, for Spencer, that place might soon be reached.
‘I know,’ I soothed again, ‘and I would be asking that myself, love. But you know what? One good way to start to make you feel better would be if you wrote to some of the people you stole from. Or anyone, really,’ I ventured. ‘Anyone you think you might have things to say to. How about we do that, hmm? Sit down together and you get some things off your chest? We don’t have to post them to people if you don’t want to, but sometimes just saying sorry – getting it all down on paper – is a really good way to start making you feel better.’
He was acquiescent now and, nodding glumly, allowed me to lead him to the kitchen table, and after Mike had gathered together a couple of pens and a pad of paper, he let me prompt him to draw up a short list of the people he felt he most had to apologise to.
His words were heartbreakingly simple to read, and he used a form of them for almost every letter he wrote out: I am sorry for all the trouble I caused you and I hope you feel better soon. Love from Spencer Herrington, the boy in care at number 57.
And he was adamant he did want to deliver them, as well, so once they were done Mike managed to find a pack of envelopes and, one by one, the letters were carefully folded and inserted, ready for us to deliver around the neighbourhood after tea.
And now he seemed calmer, I had another idea. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, once the last envelope had been sealed, ‘since you’re at the table with pen and paper, how about Mike goes and fetches the Argos catalogue and we make a start on your Christmas list as well?’
It was as if someone had pulled a cord and switched a light on inside his head. His smile – a genuine smile of astonishment and joy – could have lit up the whole neighbourhood, fences and all. Had he ever in his life known the simple childish pleasure of wanting something and knowing there was someone in the world who genuinely wanted to get it for you? But it seemed he wasn’t quite done with his letter writing yet.
‘That would be brill,’ he said, ‘but can I do one more letter first, for my mum?’
‘Of course,’ I said, feeling a wave of satisfaction wash over me. Whatever came next, this could only be a good thing.
So we sat for ten minutes more while, asking here and there for help with spelling, Spencer sat and wrote the saddest little letter I had ever seen.
Dear Mum, it read, I am so sorry for my life. I never meant to hurt you and I love you with a big heart. I want you to kiss me when my dad isn’t looking so he doesn’t think I’m a girl’s blouse, I promise I’ll let you kiss me. Casey and Mike are fixing me into a proper good kid like our Lewis. When can I come home, Mum? Love for ever and ever, Spencer xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He filled e
very spare bit of white paper with kisses, and when it came to putting it in an envelope he looked up at me. ‘You gotta make sure she only gets it in secret, though,’ he told me. I had to turn away, then, so he wouldn’t see my own tears. Mike, having stood behind him and read it as well, had already had to leave the room.
I leaned down and kissed the top of Spencer’s head. ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Glenn will be able to organise that, I promise.’ And it was thankfully a promise I knew I could keep. I couldn’t help feeling slightly antagonistic towards Kerry, though. Spencer knew nothing, and I guessed what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, but, by God, I’d feel so angry if now she’d come as far as she had she failed to come through for her son.
Mike returned with the Argos catalogue and, happily, the mood swiftly changed. Like any other boy of Spencer’s age, he duly obliged and, regardless of cost, merrily ticked off pretty much everything in the section of boys’ toys, while I set about rummaging in my fridge and freezer, trying to decide what to have for tea.
‘You know what?’ Mike said, having sat and flicked through the TV listings while Spencer compiled his list. ‘It says here that The Wizard of Oz is on later. How about we forget proper tea, make a big load of popcorn, grab some chocolates and sweets – it’ll only take me a minute to pop to the corner shop if we need stuff – make some milkshakes and watch a Christmas movie?’
This galvanised Spencer. ‘Yay!’ he cheered. ‘Yay! C’mon, Casey. Let’s all go wild for a change. Throw the veg in the bin!’ he then commanded, making both Mike and me roar with laughter.
‘Go on, then, mister,’ I said, as he jumped down from the table. ‘Bath and pyjamas on then, quickly, while we see to the feast.’
And half an hour later, looking every inch the normal happy family, the three of us were lined up on the sofa, munching popcorn while Dorothy and Toto had their adventures in the wonderful land of Oz. And not for the first time – and I doubted it would be the last time for that matter – I mused about how innocent and powerless children are in the scheme of their lives.
