Nowhere to Go (4 page)

‘Get off me, you shitty bastard!’ he screamed as Kieron held on. ‘Get your fucking hands off me, you cunt!’

I was mesmerised, I think, but thoughts of the neighbours again roused me, and I plunged in to try and separate them without delay. ‘Tyler!’ I yelled as I grabbed him by the hoodie. ‘Stop that right now and get inside, you hear me?’

It took some tugging but I eventually managed to get him away and pin both his arms to his sides. I leaned in then, and spoke quietly, close to his face. ‘I swear, Tyler,’ I hissed. ‘I won’t be telling you this again. Get in that house and go to your room. This is your last chance.’

I meant it too. Right then, I did, anyway. We’d had him a scant week and a bit, and, though it was entirely out of character, I could easily see myself calling John and telling him we’d changed our minds. It was so unlike me, but, when I considered it (coolly, as Tyler stood there and scowled at me) I realised that he hadn’t done a single tiny thing that would let me warm to him.

Not that I expected him to do that consciously, of course I didn’t. But with almost every kid I’d ever dealt with, I could see past that. See the tiniest chink of something through their spiky, gnarly armour, sense the pain and the need for love in their bruised souls.

And it was then – at that very moment – that finally I thought I glimpsed it. It was only fleeting; so swift that I could easily have missed it. But as he struggled from my grasp, it crossed his face. It was so subtle; just the tiniest jut of his chin, but I could read it. It said,
Go on, then. Hate me.
I’ve given you enough ammo now, haven’t I?
It was enough – just – to remind me that he was like this for a reason. I let him go then, and he thundered up the stairs.

I was shaking a little as I followed him back inside – I was clearly unused to the adrenalin rush. ‘Oh, Kieron,’ I said, as he bent down to start picking up the larger glass shards, ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. I just can’t believe it,’ I called back, running into the kitchen to get the dustpan. ‘I really can’t, honestly. Are you okay, love?’

Kieron surprised me then, by shrugging it off, and even smiling at me. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Mum, you forget. I deal with little tykes like that every flipping day.’

Which couldn’t be true – either that, or his school had serious discipline issues – but it was still a reminder that my little boy wasn’t a little boy any more and no longer quite as vulnerable.

‘I know you do,’ I said anyway, ‘but you don’t need that sort of thing when you’re here, do you?’

He took the dustpan. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Probably did him good. I think he at least has my measure now, don’t you?’

I looked at the broken window pane. How much was that going to cost to replace? One thing was for sure – this boy needed some swift and serious input.
So come Monday
, I thought grimly as we cleared the last of the glass,
he’s going to have my bloody measure, too
.

With our ‘pre’-placement meeting scheduled for nine thirty (what had possessed me?) it was a mad dash just getting back from dropping Tyler off at high school, let alone making anything like the sort of domestic effort I’d have wanted to before John and Tyler’s new social worker descended on me.

It was another Thursday – I could hardly believe it had been a full fortnight we’d had Tyler now – and the house felt not so much messy as ‘invaded’. And not just by the enormous chart – already filling up with ticks and numbers – that now spanned the entire top door of the fridge-freezer. No, we were experiencing an advanced case of ‘child-creep’. I’ve always been a bit OCD about cleaning – something I probably inherited from my mother – and one thing our extended period without a child staying had done was to furnish me with some pretty big rose-tinted glasses. Forget the wall-to-wall tension, the shouting and the equally noisy stony silences – how had it slipped my mind what a huge a difference in the domestic workload one 11-year-old boy could make? Particularly one who was so volatile. And life had already felt something of a whirlwind, in any case, even without the one-child tornado now residing with us. Dad was well on the mend, but I still needed to help Mum with a lot of the day-to-day domestics, and I was very conscious that Riley also had a lot on her plate, so I was trying to juggle hurricane Tyler with the twin mini-typhoons that were my grandsons. Another thing I’d forgotten was quite how many ‘runs’ were involved in Levi and Jackson’s school, nursery and social commitments, and it was all I could do to draw breath.

I took a deep one now as I turned the car into the drive and found my eye inescapably drawn to the still taped-up glass panel at the side of my front door. And in doing so, I yet again asked myself the same question – had I been just a bit too impulsive in rushing to take Tyler on? Was this really the best time in our lives to be behaviour-managing a boy who had such extreme anger? Had I been selfish in even considering it? And not just in terms of my own commitments, either. Was it really fair on the rest of the family? This was my absolute last chance to pull out, and I knew it.

I climbed out of the car and headed indoors to at least tidy up the kitchen and dining room. I still had the best part of an hour, so could probably make the place reasonably respectable, and while I did so I knew I’d run through the same loop of self-interrogation. Which was pointless. I always felt a bit like this, didn’t I? At this point in the process, with the full extent of a child’s difficulties and attendant behaviour problems laid bare, invariably came a rush of regretful hindsight. They always say you never know someone till you live with them, don’t they? And though I think it’s an expression which is normally applied to marriage, the same very much applied to foster children. Perhaps more so, because it kind of went with the territory of getting to know them. They learned to build such high walls around themselves – that was so often their way of coping – and it was only the breaking down of them that brought the grim reality into view.

But I also knew, as far as Mike and I were concerned anyway, that Tyler wasn’t going anywhere. I had known it that Saturday, because it would take much more than what he’d done to make me quit. Had had it confirmed an hour ago when I saw him sneak a peek into his lunchbox and do a little fist-pump on seeing the chocolate brownie I’d put in there – the same brownies he’d made such a show of not being ‘bothered’ about when I’d given him one fresh from the oven the day before. Little things, I thought, as I switched off the engine. Little increments.

John’s car pulled up outside at precisely nine thirty, disgorging both him and a rangy-looking guy in T-shirt and jeans. This would be Will Fisher – Tyler’s new social worker. He looked young – perhaps late twenties or early thirties, I guessed – with shoulder-length hair that my mum would have said needed someone to drag a comb through it. It was dark blond and wavy and looked faintly messianic and I decided he’d have looked equally at home with a guitar slung over his shoulder, fronting an indie band and crooning love songs to screaming teenage fans. I grinned to myself as I watched the pair shut the car doors. They were laughing at some shared joke over the roof as they did so, and knew I’d been right in thinking I hadn’t previously met Will – I very much doubted that I would have forgotten him.

I was also glad he was young and male, because I felt there was a chance that Tyler would respond well to him. And that mattered a lot, as one of the first things John had promised was that Will would be taking Tyler out on a regular basis, both to get to know him (and hopefully foster another crucial positive adult relationship which would continue beyond his spell with us) and to give us what I already knew would be a much-needed break. And my hunch was that Tyler responded well to males. No, he’d not got off to the best start with my poor son, admittedly, but Kieron had since been back again – he and his girlfriend Lauren had stopped by for tea on the Tuesday, and I had felt a positive change in the dynamic. Was I being whimsical in sensing that Tyler wasn’t just looking up
at
him; that he was wondering if he should look up
to
him too?

I mentally crossed my fingers that he might look up to Will as well. Not that you could second-guess that sort of thing about social workers really. They came in as many different varieties as did foster families, after all. There was no ‘one size fits all’ when it came to these kinds of careers. People went into them from all sorts of backgrounds, and with all sorts of motivations, and over the years I’d come across all sorts of different people, who brought all kinds of different things to the task at hand. One thing we all shared, however, was a common goal: to make the best of what, more often than not, was a pretty grim situation for whichever child was in our hands.

I went to the front door and opened it just as John was lifting his hand to press the bell, and as soon as I saw Will close up I decided I liked him. A snap judgement, yes, but I’d have been surprised if I’d have to revise it. And based on nothing more substantial than the slogan on his T-shirt – ‘Imagine Whirled Peas!’ – and the strength and immediacy of his handshake.

‘So,’ John said, after the usual introductions, ‘Casey, how
are
you?’ The emphasis was, I noted, very much on the ‘are’. As it would be – he’d called for an update at the beginning of the week, and had certainly got one. ‘And how’s your dad doing?’ he added, as I ushered them both in.

‘Better than anyone expected, actually,’ I told him as we went into the kitchen. As it was going to be just the three of us, there was more than enough space around the table, and the kitchen was the one room I always managed to keep on top of. ‘Which is just as well, really,’ I added, gesturing that they both sit down. ‘Given that in just a fortnight we’ve had a broken door pane, a broken clock and the makings of the third world war.’

‘Clock? Should I ask about the clock,’ he ventured, ‘or is this – ahem – a bad time?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, nudging him playfully. ‘What
is
the time anyway? I have no means of telling any more, do I?’

‘Er, I’ll take that as a no, then,’ John said, groaning, as I made coffee and Will began extracting paperwork from a big battered messenger bag. ‘So will Mike be joining us?’

I shook my head. ‘He would have done,’ I said, ‘but work’s a bit manic at the moment. And given that the baptism of fire’s already happened, there didn’t seem much point in him taking time off.’ I smiled at them both. ‘And it’s not as if he needs preparing for the worst, after all, is it? No, I’ll update him on everything tonight.’

In fact, the broken clock was just a casualty of the third world war. Just on the wrong wall at the wrong time – i.e. in the vicinity of a door that Tyler had decided needed slamming – and, being a veteran anyway, had had its period of active service abruptly curtailed.

As opposed to Mike and I, who had by now discussed Tyler at length, and had decided we weren’t quite ready to be put out to grass. No, by now we were back in the groove of having a pint-sized person dominating our lives, and finding out some facts would be grist to the mill.

Which I hoped we were about to get. Facts we could work with. ‘So,’ Will said, once we were seated and in possession of mugs of coffee, ‘where shall I start?’

‘At the beginning would be good,’ I quipped, nudging the plate of biscuits in his direction. ‘Because right now I feel we know almost nothing.’

Will made straight for a custard cream and popped the whole thing in his mouth, washing it down with a swig of coffee while he used his other hand to open the laptop that had emerged from his bag and now sprung into life.

‘Well, he has told me bits and bats,’ I clarified, as I marvelled at how relaxed and laid back this new social worker appeared to be. ‘I know his real mum was called Fiona, and that all he’s got to remind him of his early life now is a baby photo. And though he’s not said as such, I get the impression that he does remember some of the harsher parts of his early years, I’m afraid. I mean, you do tend to hope that when things happen to them as mere tots they might forget about it as they grow older …’

‘You do,’ John said as I drifted off with my sugar-coated thoughts. ‘Unfortunately, when their life continues to be harsh – as in this case – however, the nasty things never get put to rest, do they? It’s never too late though, is it? To give them a whole new set of memories and experiences. That’s what we’re hoping for with Tyler.’

‘Assuming he can be kept out of trouble in the interim,’ Will concluded, giving us both a wry smile. ‘Which, from what I’ve read and heard, sounds like it’ll be no mean feat, frankly.’

Which kind of burst the bubble. What exactly was
in
his files? ‘Well, if anyone can keep him on the straight and narrow the Watsons can,’ John told him loyally. ‘So he’s in a safe pair of hands, at least.
Finally
.’

I looked at John and smiled, acknowledging the compliment, but we both knew there was no such animal as a ‘safe pair of hands’ in our line of work. The only way to achieve that would be to put children like Tyler in secure units and lock the door behind them. And as we weren’t in the business of incarceration that wasn’t an option.

Not that I would ever want it to be, in any case. No, we were much more in the business of cause and effect and finding workable strategies to make progress, which meant I was much more interested in hearing about how a lad like Tyler came to be a lad like Tyler in the first place. Once we knew that, I knew we had a substantially better chance of helping him. There was so much locked inside him that needed to come out.

‘Safe as we can make them,’ I corrected. ‘Though not fail-safe, by any means. So,’ I added, turning to Will, ‘how
did
Tyler’s story begin, then?’

‘Grimly,’ came the unequivocal reply.

I knew all about grim, of course. We’d heard plenty of grim stories in our time, and I didn’t expect this one to be any different. Kids from all sorts of backgrounds came into care, obviously – the abandoned, the tragically orphaned, the temporarily without a loving family able to take care of them – but there were constants; the stories that came up again and again and again – the stories and the words that made everyone sigh, not least because of their depressing ubiquity. Violence. Sexual abuse. Paedophilia. Drug addiction. Heroin.

And this was Tyler’s word, apparently. Heroin. Heroin had been the loaded gun, circumstances the trigger. As Will explained, Tyler (who had been born some 30 miles away, and whose notes had followed him to us) had been born to a heroin-addicted mother. She had been around 21 when she’d had him, and because she had already been known to social services (she’d been in trouble with the police for possession since her mid-teens apparently), she’d been put on a methadone treatment programme during the pregnancy, in an effort both to wean her off the drug and its evils and to give her unborn baby the best chance.

Giving opiate-addicted mothers methadone was (and is) obviously a good thing, in that it was both an opportunity to take care of them and a step on the road to getting them off heroin permanently, but it still meant that their babies were born addicts as well. This was the case with Tyler, who was born with a condition called neonatal abstinence syndrome (or NAS), which meant that his first days were spent in hospital, while they slowly and carefully weaned him from the drug.

There were apparently no lasting side-effects to NAS – not physically. But how about emotionally? How did starting life with a recovering addict affect a baby? It was a sad but all too familiar story. There probably wasn’t a foster family around who hadn’t at some point come across the horrendous consequences of addiction to hard drugs, either directly or indirectly; the ripples of addiction always spread very wide.

‘Though both mother and baby were apparently doing okay,’ Will added, ‘for a while there, it seems, at any rate. Mum – Fiona, as you say – wanted to turn her life around, get clean, do her best for the baby, and it seems that, with support, she did make a go of it at first.’

She must have done, I knew, because in that sort of situation the newborn child would almost always be taken straight into care. A new baby was upheaval enough for a mother who was well and supported, let alone one so young, so alone and so chronic a drug user. That she managed to cope for
any
length of time was remarkable in itself – a testament to both her and the professionals looking after her. I knew that from personal experience with my last foster child, Emma.

Thinking of Emma was what prompted me to ask my next question. ‘So was Tyler’s father around at this time?’ I asked. ‘Was he involved in all this?’

Will shook his head. ‘No. Dad – Gareth – was most definitely out of the picture. At this point, no one even knew who he was, apparently. They’d split up early on – he maintained that he didn’t even know about the pregnancy – and she apparently wanted nothing from him, in any case. No, such records as I’ve dug out seem to suggest she was managing adequately on her own at first.’