The Boy No One Loved (7 page)

‘Who you think you’re talking to, you stinking little scruff?’

Justin turned to see two boys he knew, both headed towards him. He was in the park now, having taken the long route to school. It was much too early to go the road way so he thought he’d go through the park and skim some pebbles across the duck pond.

He dropped the stone he’d been holding and was about to throw, and shook his head. ‘No-one,’ he answered. These were bad kids, he knew. Always getting into trouble with the police and causing trouble on the estate His mum said so. And he should keep well away.

‘You’re a fucking little oik,’ said the bigger one. ‘And your mum’s a dirty whore.’

‘Shut up!’ said Justin even though he knew he shouldn’t dare to. ‘Or she’ll be round to your house and sort you out!’

‘What, give me dad a blow job?’ the other boy taunted, pushing Justin. ‘She’s a fucking junkie, she’ll do owt to get a score.’

Justin couldn’t help it. He burst into tears. ‘Just leave me alone, I want to go home now,’ he cried, which made the two boys laugh at him even more. Then one of them, obviously still in the mood for more tormenting, pushed Justin over and quickly slipped off both his shoes. ‘Without these?’ he taunted, before lifting them high in the air and then lobbing them straight into the middle of the duck pond.

‘Hey!’ said Justin, scrambling to his feet and brandishing his fists now. He threw himself at the older boy and started to pummel him, which only made both boys laugh even harder. But not done yet with humour, and before he could do anything to stop it happening, they grabbed his arms and legs, tipped him up and ducked his whole head into the water.

They then pulled him out, sniggering at all his coughing and his spluttering. ‘Bye, freak,’ they said. ‘See you at school.’

It was some minutes before he found the energy to get up again, almost all of which he spent in silent contemplation of the sky. He was freezing, he was soaking, and he was covered in mud. He had no shoes, and he knew there was no way he’d be able to find them. They were too far out in the water. It was too dangerous. He might drown. He couldn’t go to school now. He
wouldn’t
go to school now. He’d go back home, he thought, and tell his mum what had happened. He’d limp home, in the freezing cold, barefoot. What else could he do?

But when he got home, his mother wasn’t there.

We’d been sitting there together for an hour by now. An hour in which I’d had to struggle to keep myself together as Justin talked. I knew it was essential that I do that, however. If I conveyed even a fraction of the rage and disgust I was feeling as he described the grim details of his early childhood to me – childhood, what bloody childhood? – I was sure he’d clam up and find it impossible to go on. These were dark secrets he was sharing and I knew from long experience that children who’ve been involved in such ordeals bore scars that, even with the best care and support in the world, would probably never really fully heal. Scars that ate away at their minds and hearts, like some horrible cancer, and muddied every aspect of their sense of themselves. Like any other child ever born, Justin would have felt guilty. Would have felt that in some way he deserved what had happened to him. Because that, tragically, was what children did.

I wiped the tears that were forming steady tracks down both of our cheeks now, wanting nothing more than to beat the living daylights out of all these monsters. I knew I needed to keep a professional head on at all times, and that, considered rationally, these ‘monsters’ were also probably just people who had been profoundly damaged themselves, but, at that moment, I didn’t quite know how to feel anything for them but utter fury.

What I did know was that anything in my power I could do to help Justin, I would do. He deserved so much better than the hand life had dealt him. He deserved happiness. Deserved nothing less. No child did. But also because not only had the adults in his life let him down, big time, but their cruelty and neglect had also sealed his fate with all his peers; causing him to be a target for bullies.

But now Justin, still for the moment, and close beside me, once again brought me out of my reverie.

‘That was the day,’ he said.

‘The day?’

‘The day I burned the house down.’

The day I burned the house down
. I took this fact in. Not ‘the house burned down’ but ‘
I
burned the house down’. This was just heartbreaking to hear.

But I knew better than to react to it. Instead I remained silent and let him continue.

‘I got back there,’ he went on, ‘and my brothers were in such a state. She’d just left them! Just gone and left them! Can you believe she’d do that? And they were in such a right state. An’ crying. And wanting food. And I just couldn’t bear it. I had nothing to give them and I didn’t know what to do. And just thought …’

He trailed off. ‘That you couldn’t cope with things any more?’

I felt him nod against me. ‘I just couldn’t. Casey. I just couldn’t. And the dog eating their shit, and all their crying, and everything … I just couldn’t believe she’d
do
that. Can you?’

It took Justin another hour to recount to me the full horror of the events of that day. That day that had been described to Mike and I so dispassionately, so matter of factly. The neatly recorded detail of this five-year-old child who’d been playing with matches and, as a result, had accidentally burned the house down and then been placed in care. This five-year-old who was such a handful that his poor mother simply couldn’t handle him and had had no choice but to allow social services to take him. And who could blame her? After all, this was a child who, in all the reports written about him since then, was ‘trouble’, was ‘off the rails’, was a ‘bully’.

Except, perhaps all those reports
weren’t
true. Or wouldn’t have been, had his early life been different. There was clearly so much more that went on that day – and the days before it; the whole lifetime before it – that social services didn’t know anything about. I worked in the care sector. I had worked for several years in a big comprehensive with a very mixed intake, so I wasn’t naive. Yet I simply couldn’t comprehend that such things – such major things as a heroin-addict mother and the way she was failing her three tiny children – went undetected these days. Surely some neighbour or some friend of the family must have noticed? Surely anyone who had anything to do with the family, however briefly, must have known that things weren’t right?

Listening to Justin now – hearing exactly what
did
happen, and how the fire had been deliberate, not the result of any playing with lighters or matches – it seemed clear to me that something had snapped in him that day, taken him past the end of his tether. And no wonder. He was five and had been living in hell, and not a single adult had done anything to help him. The sexual abuse, the crying babies, the bullying – it didn’t matter which. What most mattered, from what Justin was saying to me now, was that in that instant of returning home, wet, cold, miserable and needing his mum, he just knew it would never get better, never change, and that this was one way to get something done. He couldn’t have known what – he was far too young to make such rational decisions. Cliché or otherwise, it had been a cry for help.

Justin had no explanation, and I didn’t press for one, for what made him do what he did. And how could he? He’d been five. Not this sad, damaged, self-harming eleven-year-old, that no-one had ever seemed to love, who was cradled in my arms now. But just
five
. Would he even have
had
an explanation? I doubted it. He just knew, seeing the dog licking the shit from his brother’s cot bars, that this was it. This was life. And he simply couldn’t cope with it any more.

‘I wanted Dylan to die,’ he told me, though I hadn’t actually asked him about it; I had only wondered, as I assume other people had before me, why he’d got his little brothers out of the house but not the family pet. But then, clearly, this was no sort of ‘family’ pet.

‘I hated him,’ Justin said. ‘I hated him because she loved him. He was
her
dog and she loved him better than us. She used to cuddle him and pet him. Do you know, she even had a photo of him on the front-room wall. Not of us kids. Oh no, just the dog. And he got food – she always seemed to be able to get food for
him
. An’ I wanted to pay her back. Teach her a lesson. And I did.’

I felt a new tightness in my throat as I thought about just how high a price that five-year-old boy paid for exacting that revenge. ‘I know, love,’ I said soothingly. ‘I know.’

It had taken some time for social services to track down Justin’s mother on the day of the fire. She’d been with her ‘boyfriend’, somewhere else on the estate, far enough away not to hear either the commotion or the sirens. It had been the next-door neighbours who’d called the fire brigade to alert them about the house fire, and they’d arrived to find both Justin and his little brothers all huddled beneath the duvet, in the garden, the little ones terrified, but Justin himself seemingly mute.

‘She didn’t want them to take me,’ he said, as I finally gathered my wits about me and began dealing with cleaning and dressing the cuts and gouges on his feet. He seemed so much calmer now he’d told me his story. ‘She didn’t want them to at all,’ he repeated. ‘She did love me an’ my brothers really …’ he paused here. ‘She did. But she had to, they told her she did. They said if she didn’t let them take me away she’d have to go to prison. So I had to go with them. Or else she’d have gone to prison.’

I bit my tongue, remembering John’s words when he’d first told us about Justin.
Voluntary care order
. That much was crystal clear. ‘I know, love,’ I said again. ‘It must have been horrible. Horrible for all of you. There,’ I finished, beckoning him to inspect his cleaned wounds. ‘It’s important we keep them clean now, so they’ll heal.’ I looked closely at him, realising just how much time had passed now. We’d been up here for hours. ‘You must be hungry,’ I said. ‘It’s way past your normal breakfast time. Shall we go down and I’ll get you something nice to eat?’

But he wasn’t hungry – a first – and also, for the first time since his arrival, he wasn’t bothered about the clock or the schedule either. He told me he just wanted to lie on his bed for a bit. Chill out and watch some cartoons.

‘You sure?’ I said, making to rise from the bed now. ‘I could make you some toast and bring it up.’

Justin shook his head, and then did something that shocked me to the core. He spread his arms and leaned in towards me for a hug. ‘I love you, Casey,’ he said, as I encircled him in my arms. ‘I do. I really love you, you know.’

Unable to speak now, for fear of breaking down completely, I simply nodded and hugged him tightly till he released me, then left the room.

By the time I was downstairs, my brain was whirring with it all. This was incredible progress. Progress, and also a real insight into more of Justin’s past. I must speak to John Fulshaw as soon as I could, I realised, while everything was really clear in my mind. At last I really felt we could do something to help Justin. But I got no further – my emotions were just too overwhelming to be tucked into a pocket in my mind, labelled ‘work’. So instead I just sat down and cried.

It was the following Saturday morning and I was on pins.

I’d had long conversations with both John Fulshaw and Harrison Green, filling them in about what Justin had told me, and even though I understood completely that this was my fundamental responsibility as a foster carer (and one I would never consider running away from), I still felt terribly anxious about the consequences when I explained to Justin that both of them would now want to talk to him too. It had to be done, of course: quite apart from the importance of this to Justin’s psychological progress, there were larger issues, too, not the least of which was the fact that Janice still had Justin’s two brothers with her, and was expecting another. Was she still a user? Was she still fraternising with abusers, come to that? And, crucially, would these revelations involve further investigation of her by social services? If that happened, she would know where the revelations had come from, further jeopardising their already fractured relationship. That, above all, made me feel terrible about it. For I felt sure what her response to him would be.

So I felt bad. I had a powerful sense of just how big a thing it was for Justin – so private, so unable to get close to anyone, so mistrustful of the adult world – to open up to me, in many ways a stranger still myself, and to share his darkest, most painful memories. I had a strong hunch, despite my having pointed out that I’d have to share them, that he would see this as a major betrayal. And why wouldn’t he? He was eleven; how could he properly understand such things?

And it would turn out that I was right to be so fearful.

I’d elected to forgo a Saturday shopping trip with Riley (reluctantly, as quality ‘girly’ time with my daughter was, and is, one of my favourite things of all) so that I could be sure of having a period of time when Justin and I would be alone in the house. Mike always gave Kieron a lift to play football on Saturdays, and would stay to cheer him on from the sidelines.

And now that time had come and I was as antsy as hell. ‘Come on you two,’ I nagged Kieron and Mike. All three of them were playing Football Manager on the Playstation – ‘boys’ together. As happy and relaxed a family scene as you could wish for. Justin had been in a good mood all morning, in fact, which made me feel more nervous still. ‘You’re going to be late for kick-off if you don’t hurry up. And
that
game –’ I pointed towards the TV and console – ‘will still be here when the two of you get back.’

I was keen – we all were – that Justin get out and get more exercise, not only because he was carrying a few extra pounds, but also because we knew the emotional value of exercise; something which, for a stressed child with so many problems, such as Justin, could make a real difference to his mental state. And if he could find a sport or activity that he liked and had a flair for, it could provide a place in which he could channel his anger and aggression, and, who knew, if he worked at it, develop his self-esteem.

But despite much encouragement from both Mike and Kieron, we’d yet to persuade Justin of the pleasures of the great outdoors. Mike joked that he was afraid to even go and watch a game, just in case somebody accidentally kicked a ball in his direction. Maybe we would convince him eventually, but right now the PlayStation and TV held much more attraction, as it often did for children with difficult backgrounds and few friends. Today, though, he seemed happy, grabbing the controller from Kieron and grinning. ‘Yeah, go on, you two,’ he agreed. ‘Leave this with me. I can make sure your teams lose so I go up the league.’

‘Muuuummmmm!’ Kieron whined at me. ‘Don’t let him do that! It took me ages to get up to that position!’

I pulled a face at him. ‘Kieron, honestly. You are
how
old, exactly? C’mon Mike, love, take him away so he can play with the big boys!’

With more ribbing and a touch more teasing from Justin, they were finally out of the front door and the house was still. Justin went back to the PlayStation and I decided to leave him for a short while, mostly so I could gather my own thoughts before confronting the unpalatable task I had in store.

Fifteen minutes later, it being lunchtime, I decided to call him to the kitchen. I’d made us both sandwiches and put the plates on the table. He pulled out a chair, sat down and picked up his.

‘I was only messing about, Casey,’ he said to me, without prompting. ‘I won’t really mess up Kieron’s game.’

I was touched at this. ‘I never thought you would, love. And nor did Kieron. Just a bit of fun, eh? Do you want a glass of milk?’

He nodded, and remembered to swallow before replying. ‘Yes, please,’ he said. ‘And can I have some crisps, too? I’m starving.’

‘You’re always starving!’ I answered, going to the cupboard to get a packet. ‘I’d think something was seriously up if you weren’t!’ I came to the table then, sensing my moment. ‘By the way, love,’ I said lightly. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you. You know the chat we had Thursday? You know, about your mum and stuff?’

Silence. He just sat and stared at the sandwich, which he had just put back down on his plate. Shit, I thought.
Shit
. I should have left this till later. Give him a couple of days to regain his equilibrium. But I’d started now, so I’d have to see it through. ‘Well, the thing is,’ I went on, ‘you remember me telling you I’d have to speak to Harrison and John about some of it? Well, I’ve had a chat with them, because … well, because some of it’s kind of worrying, isn’t it, love? And they need to understand about some of the things that have happened to you so that they can help you too. As well as me …’ I stopped then. In fact, I was literally stopped in my tracks, because Justin was staring at me and his face had completely changed. Even though I knew that at any moment there’d be a huge eruption, I just couldn’t help but be mesmerised by his expression. I’d never seen anything quite like it – before or since. It was honestly like looking at one of those horror films, in which a human morphed into a werewolf in slow motion. His eyebrows lowered and seemed to merge into one long angry line, while his eyes darkened – really darkened; almost to black. His cheekbones became prominent and his mouth curled into a kind of sneer. I had to keep telling myself
he’s just a child, he’s just eleven, that’s all
– because it really was that chilling to observe.

He slowly raised his head –
here it comes, I thought, here it comes
– placed both hands on the table, rose, and pushed his chair back.

‘Don’t worry, Justin,’ I tried. ‘They won’t
tell
anyone. It’s confidential. They won’t do anything to get you into trouble. You’re
not
in trouble. They just want to help you. We
all
do!’

‘You fucking bitch,’ he said quietly. In fact, his voice was astonishingly level. Even so, I knew this could very soon get ugly.

‘Justin,’ I said firmly. ‘Please don’t speak to me like that. You’ll lose points now, and that’s such a shame. You’ve done so well so far today.’ I was clutching at straws and I knew it.

‘Fuck the points,’ he growled at me. ‘And fuck you too. You said I could trust you!’

‘But you
can
!’

‘No I can’t! You’re a liar. A fucking liar! Why did you have to tell them? Why? I’m not staying here.’ He kicked the chair out of his way. ‘I’m not staying! You’re just like my mother!’

He then grabbed his plate –
smash
. It hit the kitchen wall, hard, and I ducked out of the way simultaneously, instinctively, even though I could see that, thank God, he hadn’t actually aimed it at me. That sort of aggression, I reflected, even in the midst of what was happening, might have proved a step way too far to get back from. But then, I’d yet to know what was still to come.

He started punching the table now, with clenched fists, making the rest of the things on it dance and clatter across the surface, like flotsam and jetsam on a stormy sea.

I snatched up my own plate, before it too was smashed into pieces. ‘Justin!’ I had raised my voice now. I had to stay calm but in charge. ‘Go to your room until you’re calm! I will not speak to you while you’re reacting like this.’ I picked up his milk glass, as well. ‘I know you’re angry,’ I went on. ‘I
understand
that. And I’m sorry you feel that way, I really am. But I will not have you speaking or behaving in this manner. Go on!’ I finished, trying to inject my voice with maximum authority. ‘Move it, okay. Move it
now
!’

Please, I thought, watching him decide whether to obey me.
Please
, I thought,
don’t make this any worse. Just go
. But I could sense his indecision so I rammed my point home again. ‘Justin, I am not going to talk to myself here!
Room
!’ I jabbed a finger towards the door. ‘Room,
now
!’

That did it. He stormed to his room, slamming every door he walked through, screaming obscenities as he went.

I touched my chest. My heart was pumping like a train. It was as if the whole fabric of the house was shuddering.

After I’d cleared up the broken crockery and re-established some sort of order, I sat in the kitchen for some time, feeling terrible. I had
had
to tell – it was my job to pass on things like this – but I felt I’d gone about things all wrong. Surely I could have prepared Justin more, or found a better way to tell him what had had to happen. It really brought it home to me how much I still had to learn about this new career I’d chosen – Mike and I had both chosen – not to mention having a very stark and physical reminder of what an incredibly big and demanding job it was.

I took a deep breath and stooped to collect a small piece of broken plate under the table, which I’d missed, surprised to see that I was physically shaking. In all my time in the school unit, I’d never felt quite so vulnerable and shaken up. How the hell had an eleven-year-old reduced me to this? I reached for my cigarettes on autopilot and went outside to light one. But I couldn’t because my hands wouldn’t stay still long enough to make the lighter work.

How could this be? I had worked with some of the most difficult children for years, and I tried hard to look back and think of a comparable event. I was angry with myself, and with the situation too. It seemed that the one time, in fact, the
first
time, that I had an ‘in’ to Justin, I’d had to – through no fault of my own – then destroy it. Yes, it was the protocol, but it was bloody hard to swallow, and I wasn’t sure I trusted the protocol any more.

It took me a long time to calm down, and once I had, I tried to call Mike, but he obviously had no signal at the football ground because his phone was going straight to voicemail. I knew he wouldn’t be back till teatime either, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I thought about asking Riley to come over but I was worried that might just make Justin worse.

I spent some time feeling completely undecided, just standing in the conservatory, smoking, staring out into the garden. Should I go up to him and see if he’d calmed down, or should I not? In the end, I opted not to because I thought it might just exacerbate the situation and ignite a further confrontation. I was also nervous and wary about facing him again, alone. He’d scared me quite a bit and I had knots in my stomach just thinking about going up there. Best to just leave him and hope he stayed put and had calmed down by the time Mike got home.

In the meantime, I needed to get on with something, so after I’d cleared the last of the mess up and binned the remains of Justin’s sandwich, I set about preparing that evening’s tea. I’d planned home-made chicken korma with rice – one of Kieron’s favourites, and now methodically pulled the ingredients from the fridge. Chicken breasts, peppers, onions and garlic, all of which I assembled and started chopping and crushing. It was strangely therapeutic, doing this rhythmic, mindless task and, minute by minute, I felt the tension in my shoulders begin to ease. I even began to wonder, as I steadily grew calmer, if perhaps I was over-reacting to what had just happened. After all, I had expected an outburst from him hadn’t I? And maybe it was justified, too.

I’d been at it for about half an hour when Justin suddenly reappeared in the kitchen, startling me, as I hadn’t heard him come down the stairs. He said nothing; just took up his place at the table once more. Taking his lead, I decided to say nothing either. I just smiled but he immediately turned his face away.

It seemed he was determined to get my attention, for all that, because he began tapping cutlery against the table top. Not for long though; he soon tired of that, and got up once again – coming over quite close beside me, at the worktop. Here he picked up the flat knife – the one I’d just used to crush the garlic cloves – and started running it up and down the worktop. He then put it down and went over to the cooker, where the frying pan of chicken was sizzling. Now he picked up the wooden spoon that was resting in the pan and began tapping it rhythmically against the side of it. The growing tension was once again almost palpable.

‘Can you stop doing that please, Justin?’ I asked him levelly. But he ignored me and simply carried on. I left it for a minute then asked him again. ‘Justin, can you please stop that?’ I repeated, this time more firmly. But once again he carried on regardless.

I was well aware something was building again, but was entirely unprepared for what happened next. Even before I could properly see what was happening, Justin suddenly lunged for my knife block, grabbed a knife out of it, then leapt up, in a single bound, onto the worktop.

Both astonished at his agility – so much for his apparent lack of athleticism – and also terrified, as he was now towering over me, I watched horrified as he brandished it, his face set in that scary rictus mask again, screaming obscenities at me and becoming more and more incoherent, as the words tumbled out – he hated me, he was going to stab me, I was a fucking crap mother. But when he yelled that I preferred the dog to him, it really brought me up short – we didn’t own one – and I realised he was talking as if he was confusing me with his mother. I wasn’t even sure he was fully
compos mentis
at that moment, and I knew I had to think fast, and on my feet.