No Place for Nathan (4 page)

Which was no hardship, even though, early on, I knew my attention to these sorts of details marked me out as perhaps a little over-zealous. Which was fair enough, I supposed, because I felt very zealous. The time might one day come when I grew a touch more cynical and a bit less soft about the kids, but I couldn’t see that happening anytime soon.

It was Thursday afternoon, then, before I next saw Nathan. Having caught up with my move via Jim down in the Unit, he came rushing in during afternoon break, in a flurry of excitement. ‘Ooh, Miss, this is lovely!’ he gushed, running around like a wild child, touching everything in sight and stroking all the surfaces. ‘I can’t wait till it’s my turn to come see you in here. When is it my turn? Will it be soon?’

‘It will,’ I said, consulting a timetable of which I already knew most of the contents. ‘I’ll be back teaching in the Unit twice next week anyway, but, yes, you’re with me tomorrow afternoon, sweetie. And every Friday afternoon from then on.’

He clapped his hands together in delight. ‘Oh, I can’t wait! Do you want me to do you a picture for your wall? It’s very bare, Miss.’

‘You read my mind, Nathan,’ I told him. ‘I’d like that very much.’

He smiled one of his funny little smiles then and looked at me from under his black lashes. ‘And I might even get Jenny to do one for you too.’

In the event, it was early on the Friday morning that I next saw Nathan. He was waiting outside my office for me, sitting cross-legged in front of the door.

‘You’re early,’ I called as he pulled himself to his feet and yanked at trousers that were already in conversation with his lower shins.

‘I thought I’d come early in case you had any jobs that needed doing,’ he explained. ‘I’m good at jobs, aren’t I?’

I unlocked the door and agreed that he was. Not that I could think of one on the spur of the moment. ‘Give me a minute,’ I told him, parking my handbag and coat. ‘I’m sure I will, but in the meantime why don’t you sit and chat to me instead?’

‘Actually,’ he said, as if he’d been waiting for just such an invitation, ‘I have something to tell you, Miss. A secret.’

My ears pricked up instantly. Though so did my training. ‘Nathan,’ I told him, ‘we don’t have secrets here, remember? You can tell me anything you like but I can’t promise to keep it a secret, remember?’

‘Okay,’ he conceded, ‘but I’m going to tell you anyway, because it’s so lovely.’

‘Is it, now?’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘I had sex with my girlfriend last night and it was nice, Miss.’ He leaned towards me. ‘We did
porn
.’

For all his colourful language in the Unit from time to time, this one brought me up rather short. The child was 11, after all. ‘Nathan,’ I scolded gently, ‘I don’t think you should be saying things like that unless they’re true. Is that Nathan talking?’ I added, wondering if we’d strayed into a persona.

‘Yes, it is,’ he said, nodding. ‘It’s always Nathan now. I can’t use my other people any more, Miss, because my daddy’ll get mad with me – like,
really
mad. But if you don’t believe me,’ he went on chattily, ‘I can tell you what I did. I stuck my thingy in her thing and we jumped up and down.’

‘You did?’ I asked.

‘I
really
did,’ he said. ‘So
there
!’

Somewhat uncomfortable at this revelation, not to mention a little stumped at what to do with it, I repeated that he shouldn’t be talking like that unless he was telling the honest truth.

‘I am telling the bloody truth!’ he said dramatically, ‘I know what porn is, Miss. It’s when a boy does it with
lots
of different people and nobody tells anyone. I got another secret as well.’

‘Which is?’

‘I’m partly gay, Miss. I just found out. I found out because me and William did it together yesterday, in the toilets. We touched willies together and kissed and everything, Miss. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

There was a knock on the open door then – the school secretary dropping off some paperwork – and Nathan’s hand flew to his mouth. She’d not heard anything, I was sure, though she’d heard enough in her working life not to have batted an eyelid anyway, but it signalled the end of Nathan’s confessional session, because he jumped up then and told me he had to be going and that he’d see me that afternoon as planned.

I decided I’d investigate further. I knew William was a friend of Nathan’s so it would be sensible to alert their head of year in any case; even if he didn’t know anything, he could obviously keep an ear out. I’d also make a copy for Gary in child protection, as it would be him who’d pass it on to social services.

And was Martin right after all? Did Nathan simply have an overactive imagination? Or was there more to it? Nathan had spouted it all out to me so matter of factly that he might as well have been telling me that he had just learned how to ride a bike! Curiouser and curiouser, and not in a good way.

It didn’t take me long to do the report, and I duly printed two copies and took them to both of my colleagues’ in-trays. When I returned to my office, via a coffee stop, and found Gary there waiting for me, my first thought – and comment – was, ‘That was quick!’

‘I must have missed you by moments,’ he said, following me inside and shutting the door. ‘And I’m afraid that at least some of this
is
true.’

I groaned, but, at the same time, felt a small spark of vindication. ‘It is?’

‘We had William’s mother here last night. It seems that something
did
happen in the toilets yesterday and, according to William, Nathan initiated it. Forced himself on Will, by all accounts – the boy’s apparently quite traumatised. He was going to keep it to himself, though, by all accounts, but apparently Nathan was keen to tell pretty much anyone in earshot that Will and he had sex and loved each other.’ He sighed a weary sigh. ‘So, of course, everyone began calling Will names, so he told his mum and – well, you can imagine. She’s not very happy.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said. ‘You know, we really need that report from the psychologist. In fact, maybe he needs a formal re-assessment anyway. It’s already clear that Nathan isn’t able to be mainstreamed without full-time supervision, and this just adds weight to that, doesn’t it? And you know, Gary, I
still
think that there are underlying factors at home. I just don’t accept this “peculiar child” tag he seems to have been saddled with.’

Gary concluded that – thankfully – he was inclined to agree with me and would address the matter with the educational psychologist at once. ‘I’ll put another child protection referral through,’ he added. ‘Given the explicit nature of Nathan’s revelations, they can hardly
not
act, at least in some way. Fingers crossed.’

‘Duly crossed,’ I said. ‘And toes, too, for good measure.’

That afternoon, as planned, Nathan attended his appointment with me. The buzz phrase at the time was ‘life space interviews’, where I would simply encourage a child to talk about anything and not interfere with their flow. I would use prompt words to keep them on track if it helped achieve that, but in the main it was all about active listening and the making of (very) discreet notes.

I was determined to make the most of this opportunity with Nathan, who breezed in as usual, thankfully oblivious to the waves he’d set rolling, and came around the back of my desk to stand beside me.

‘It’s good to see you, Miss,’ he said, as if we’d been parted for many months. ‘Do you bring your make-up to school? I really love your lip gloss.’

‘No, sweetie,’ I said, ‘I put it on in the morning and just hope that it lasts.’

‘And does it?’ he asked, scrutinising me. ‘Right till bedtime?’

I told him no lip gloss in the world would last through fish and chips and mushy peas, upon which he rolled his eyes and flapped a wrist. ‘Could you bring it next time, Miss, maybe, and I’ll bring mine too? Then we could have a girlie time putting make-up on, couldn’t we?’

I was finding it difficult to know where to go with him in this mode and wished I knew more about the reasons why children adopted such mysterious ways. In the meantime, though, I’d just have to apply common sense. ‘Boys don’t really wear make-up, do they, Nathan? Just girls and ladies, mostly. Anyway, you look very nice without it.’

He drew a hand across one of his eyebrows to tame a stray curl. ‘Do you know,’ he said suddenly, ‘that we have a parrot in our house? It talks to me all the time; it’s
so
funny.’

At last
, I thought,
a safer subject
, even if I wasn’t quite sure I believed him. ‘I used to have a parrot that talked, too,’ I told him. ‘What do you call yours?’

‘It’s called Peter,’ he said, moving around to the other side of my desk and pulling out the chair. ‘And it says “Get the lazy fucker out of bed” and “Fuck off to school” and “Don’t dare talk to that Mrs Watson”.’

He hadn’t sat down and as I looked at him I watched his expression change. He was staring at me intently now. ‘Why do you think your parrot says that?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know, Miss,’ he said. ‘And do you know what else he says?’

I shook my head.

‘He says “And don’t fucking tell social services that you and your dad sleep on a mattress in your bedroom”.’

Nathan’s expression was now mask-like – as if he really was just parroting words at me. It was so strange and unsettling that it made me shudder.

‘And
do
you and your dad share a mattress?’ I asked him, conscious that, as he had already told me this, I wasn’t leading him.

He looked me in the eye but his lips didn’t move. Instead he shrugged, then said, ‘Miss, can I go and read in the Unit now? I’m tired. I don’t really want to chat anymore.’

I hesitated, wondering what I could usefully say next, but in the end, unable to come up with anything that wouldn’t feel as if I was pressing him, I let him go. I then pulled my chair under my desk, ready to write up yet another report, but thought better of it. Perhaps I’d just go straight to Gary, or, better still, speak to Martin in social services myself.

Martin was, once again, lightly irritable. Well, at least, that was how his voice sounded when I outlined Nathan’s latest comments and he explained that he had already visited the family – by appointment – and had concluded that there was nothing amiss.

I told him again that I disagreed; that I felt Nathan was suffering some form of abuse; that I was no psychologist but that it seemed to me he’d developed these different personas as a way to both distance himself from the trauma of what was happening and to enable him to tell someone about it.

In return, I was told – and in no uncertain terms – that the situation had been dealt with; that they were a family that were doing their level best to cope with a child with behavioural problems – one who he understood was about to be reassessed through the school. Perhaps then we’d all be in a better position to help him.

I went back to my office and typed up my report. I wasn’t sure quite what else I could do. ‘Mattress,’ I typed. The word lingered.

I had lots of kids to help support and an invariably full timetable, so I didn’t see or hear anything of Nathan till the following week, when he arrived for our session with a big grin on his face, having got through the intervening time without causing any trouble.

‘No fights,’ he said proudly, ‘and no bad language, neither. So, Miss, do I get a reward now?’

I told him he did – I’d already had the heads-up from Jim – and presented him with a big cardboard box full of art stuff, explaining that his treat would be to make a big castle and that on each week that he was good and caused no one any trouble, we would make characters to live in it – princes and princesses and so on.

He was soon sprawled on the floor, planning his model, happy enough to lie there and draw while I got on with some paperwork. It went like this sometimes; kids just needed space and time out from peers. It was at these times when they were often most inclined to open up to me.

Nathan was no exception. After about 20 minutes, he looked up and casually told me that he was doing his castle to be like ‘the place me and Jodie sometimes go to’.

I’d not heard the name – not in connection with Nathan. ‘Jodie?’ I asked. ‘Is she your friend?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. We go to a flat to see this man and his dog, and he showed me and her how to do sex.’

I placed my pen down but didn’t turn to look at him. ‘Oh,’ I said mildly. ‘And this is a real flat, is it, Nathan? Not part of your castle story? I mean, it’s okay if it is. I just wondered.’

‘No, I swear, Miss,’ he said. ‘His name is Michael an’ he stinks. But it’s fine because he gives me and Jodie money and sweets if we go there and do stuff.’

Now I turned to look at him. ‘What stuff do you do?’ I asked evenly, aware that I was not allowed to ask leading questions.

He glanced at me. ‘I can’t say, because you always tell and I get done for it. It’s okay, though, Miss,’ he added. ‘I was just saying.’

And that was that. Nathan went back to drawing his castle ramparts and, with my professional code meaning it would be inappropriate to press him, I went back to my paperwork.

By now, my file on Nathan was beginning to read like a horror story, but once he’d gone – without further mention of flats or men called Michael – I dutifully wrote up the details of our session and got it into Gary’s in-tray before the day was out. Of Gary himself there was no sign, sadly – he was out of school, at a meeting, but at least I could start my weekend secure in the knowledge that I’d done
my
part, even if nothing happened till Monday.

But when Monday came, it seemed something further
had
happened, as explained excitably by Nathan himself. He had obviously been waiting for me to arrive for some time, because he was fit to bursting with the need to share his news.

‘Miss, Miss!’ he enthused as soon as he saw me.

‘Hi, babes,’ I said, intrigued. ‘What brings you here, then? You look like a cat on a hot tin roof!’

I passed him my key so he could open the door for me, struggling as I was beneath an armload of books. ‘Miss, guess what happened this morning?’ he said as he unlocked the door. ‘I was just going up the road from my house on my way to school and I saw a police car, and so I stopped and then it stopped at my house, so I stood and watched and the policeman went up to my front door and knocked on it, an’ my dad answered and the policeman asked if he could talk to me – I even
heard
him, Miss! And my dad said that I wasn’t there, but he could see me, Miss – he could
see
me! I was stood right there up the road but my dad said I’d gone to school!’