Breaking the Silence (10 page)

Sylvia made it all sound so simple and so obvious. I suddenly remembered a couple of children I had worked with at school. Both on the autism spectrum, they had carried around picture boards, and their teachers would change the pictures each day to correspond with whatever lessons they had. If they had Chemistry, for example, there would be a picture of a Bunsen burner, and if they had biology, a picture of the parts of a flower.

‘But one warning,’ Sylvia finished, after her ‘can-do’ list of positives. ‘Georgie doesn’t seem to feel pain like other children, so be sure to watch out for him hurting himself.’

‘Doesn’t he physically feel it?’ This was difficult to imagine.

‘Well, let’s just say that he doesn’t seem to articulate feeling it. He can go off like a bottle of pop if he feels emotionally unsettled, but where physical hurt’s concerned he’s a bit of an enigma. I have no idea about the physiology of such a thing, obviously, but this is not a child who is going to burst into tears if he cuts his knee.’

She went on to recount that a couple of years back, when Georgie had thrown himself at a wall in his frustration, he had broken his arm. ‘But the only reason we knew,’ she said, ‘was because we got it X-rayed, hours later. And that was only because someone noticed he was holding it slightly strangely. Not a whimper of pain. It was incredible. None at all.’

It was a sobering piece of information to file away, that, and, as I put the phone down, I reflected that I’d learned more about the specifics of Georgie’s autism in that one twenty-minute phone call than I had in several hours of research. It was a reminder that every child is an individual, with specific needs and tendencies – autistic children included.

I was also grateful to have Sylvia on tap. What had come across strongly was how much she cared, endorsed further by her instruction to call her any time – day or night – if I had questions or anxieties or a crisis.

That done, I spent a happy morning, courtesy of the previous season’s Argos catalogue and the internet, cutting and sticking all sorts of images for around the house. And an even happier afternoon, with Riley, having remembered she had a laminator, creating wipeable, splash-resistant cards for almost everything, from the mug cupboard to the bathroom cabinet to the DVD drawer beneath the telly, all of which I’d have the boys help me put up once I’d collected them from school.

But I should have expected that there might be a fly stuck in my ointment. My mobile rang just as I was climbing into my car to do the pick-up. It was Marie Bateman, with sobering news.

‘I know it’s eleventh hour,’ she said, ‘but I’ve literally just come out of the meeting. Jenson’s contact visit tomorrow has been cancelled.’

‘Why?’ I spluttered, already imagining the upset this would cause poor Jenson, and – as a consequence – the calm environment of our home.

‘The boyfriend, Gary – sorry, fiancé – has moved in with Karen, basically.’

‘And?’ I asked, knowing that there would be slightly more to it. You didn’t cancel contact without good reason. Oh, poor Jenson.

‘Because there are question marks over him,’ Marie said. ‘Bit of a bad boy. No need to go into details, but he’s had something of a chequered past. Not involving kids, as far as I know, but he still needs to be police-checked. You know how these things work.’

Indeed I did. ‘But couldn’t Karen see Jenson elsewhere, like they did last time?’

‘Yes, in theory. And that was what was planned. Except she’s being so antagonistic there’s a concern that there’s more to this. We think that it’s Gary’s influence, but Karen is actually saying that if her Gary can’t go to the contact then she won’t either. Hence the decision. Which I know is going to upset Jenson dreadfully, but I’m hoping we’ll be able to reschedule it for early next week. Sorry,’ she said again, after a short pause. ‘I’m all too aware that it’s you who’s going to have to deal with the fall-out.’

And attendant freak-out, no doubt, I thought. Wonderful.

I was dreading breaking the news to Jenson. He was so looking forward to seeing his mum, and I couldn’t help cursing her for being so heartless. Unbelievable that she would rather score points against social services than make her poor child feel loved and wanted. I was also concerned about the implications of what she’d done. She was his mum, for God’s sake – didn’t she want to
see
him?

I decided not to break the news straight after school, but after tea. In my experience hungry kids were much more easily wound up than kids with full stomachs.

‘Hope you’re both hungry, guys!’ I said brightly, as we pulled out from the school drive. ‘Lovely fish, mashed potatoes and parsley sauce for tea!’

Parsley sauce, that was, with very, very tiny flecks of parsley. I glanced through the rear-view mirror and noted the small contented smile on Georgie’s face. He was looking down at his cupped hands again, in that intense way he had, as if seeing them for the very first time. I wasn’t even sure if he was listening, but no matter, Jenson was. ‘No mushy peas?’ he said. ‘You got to have mushy peas if it’s fish – it’s the rule.’

‘Mushy peas for all the rest of us, love, don’t worry. But not for Georgie. I don’t think he likes them, do you, Georgie?’

Jenson turned to Georgie. ‘Is it cos they’re all bogie coloured, Georgie? Bogie green. Mmm. Yummy yummy. Lovely and
greeeeen
.’

‘Jenson, knock it off please,’ I said. ‘Stop being silly. You –’

‘Giant maggots!’ Georgie suddenly exclaimed. ‘With green slime, unleashed by BOSS – Biomorphic Organisational Systems Supervisor. It killed the miner.’ He paused and turned his head. ‘Green death.’

Through the mirror I could see Jenson’s jaw drop. Georgie, nonplussed, went back to studying his hands, while his small tormentor decided he’d perhaps leave off the tormenting and look out of the window instead.

I smiled to myself. There were definitely some plus-points to kids being afraid of things they didn’t understand. And as a defence against being teased, it was priceless.

Once we got home, Georgie noticed the results of my day’s labours straight away, and walked slowly around each room, studying every picture carefully. His eyes positively lit up when he saw the clocks I’d created, with their times and what each one represented. He turned and grinned at me, even making eye contact very fleetingly.

‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Good, Casey. This is Georgie’s house.’

I felt my throat constrict a little, knowing what I knew and he didn’t; that this was only to be his home temporarily. That, in all probability, just as he had settled in, they would find a permanent home for him, which would mean going through the whole trauma of moving once again. And not for the first time – since that was the nature of my work – I felt bad about it; something of a fraud.

I smiled anyway. ‘Yes, it sure is, kiddo. And now you know where everything lives, you can help me look after you better, can’t you?’

Luckily, Jenson wasn’t around to hear that exchange, having gone straight up to his room to change out of his uniform. I had a feeling he already felt a bit pushed out by Georgie, as would any child who felt they’d been usurped by a new arrival, which was why child-care books made so much of all the things you had to do when bringing home a new baby.

I also had a hunch he resented the fact that Georgie was staying for considerably longer than he was. Mad, when you thought how desperate he was to get back home again, but then, human emotions weren’t always logical.

I had decided to eat with the boys, rather than waiting for Mike and eating later, as I felt my presence around the table, sharing a family meal, would be important – leading by example, as it were. And as I took their meals and tumblers of milk through to the dining room I was pleased to find the atmosphere was actually one of conviviality. Yes, Jenson was making a big fuss about his upcoming mushy peas, to torment Georgie – licking his lips and waving his fork around, and generally being a bit silly – but, at that level, particularly since Georgie seemed to be ignoring it, I decided it might be best to ignore it myself.

Besides, I had something of my own to bring up, and though I wavered – should I take Jenson off to his room after we’d eaten? – I had a gut instinct that it might make the whole thing seem less portentous if I didn’t make too big a deal of it. Present it as a logistical problem more than anything; perhaps that way he wouldn’t read too much into it.

And it looked like I’d have an opportunity. Georgie, his glass empty, started pointing to it and looking at me. He obviously wanted another drink.

‘Do me a favour, love,’ I said to Jenson, since he had already finished eating. ‘Come into the kitchen and help me with dessert, yes? And a drink for Georgie,’ I added. ‘There’s a love. Oh, by the way,’ I said lightly, once we were safely out of earshot. ‘I know it’s going to disappoint you, love, but unfortunately your visit to see your mum tomorrow’s had to be postponed. They’re going to rearrange it for as soon as possible, obviously – just not tomorrow. I’m so sorry, sweetheart,’ I finished, handing him the fresh tumbler of milk.

I watched Jenson’s face set into a rigid angry mask. ‘They can’t do that!’ he said. ‘Who said so anyway? Is it the social or her who’ve done the cancelling?’

‘Your social worker, love,’ I said carefully. ‘Marie did.’ There was no need to tell him the real truth about it. Indeed, I sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to find out. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I know she’ll rearrange it just as soon as she possibly can.’

‘Why, though?’ he persisted, as I rummaged in the fridge for yoghurts. ‘Has someone said owt about me? I bet they have. I bet you anything it was that bloody old –’

‘
Jenson
,’ I said calmly. ‘I promise you, it’s not that. This has absolutely nothing to do with anything you have done or not done. This is just stuff that the grown-ups have to sort out. You’ve done nothing wrong,’ I repeated. ‘Nothing wrong at
all
. And I’m sure Marie will get back to us just as soon as she can, and in the meantime, perhaps –’

‘Fuck off!’ Jenson said, immediately slamming down the glass. He banged it down with such force that milk slopped over the worktop, but thankfully I’d chosen sensibly – it was plastic. ‘Fuck
off
!’ He was by now on his way back through to the dining room. ‘And
you
can fuck off as well!’ he railed, pointing at a startled Georgie. ‘You can specially fuck off, you fucking retard!’

‘Jenson!’ I said firmly. ‘This isn’t helping anything. Now would you please sit back down and calm down and finish your tea. I know you’re upset, but I won’t have you talking like that in this house, you hear me?’

But Jenson was too enraged now for my words to have any impact. ‘Fuck
off
!’ he yelled again, running to the dining room door. ‘And yeah, I
do
hear, okay? Just like I hear everything you say to him!’ He glared at Georgie again. ‘All your stupid pictures. Fucking retard! You can shove the fucking lot of them up your arse!’

Jenson thundered up the stairs, leaving both Georgie and me staring. But then I realised that Georgie wasn’t just staring; he’d begun rocking. He’d clamped his hands to his ears and was rhythmically rocking; back and forth, back and forth, his eyes fixed on the middle distance, his expression glassy eyed and weird and pained.

I went across to him, anxious not to startle him with sudden movements.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ I said softly. ‘Jenson was just a bit upset. He’s just angry because he’s not having a very good day.’

I was close to Georgie now, and was just dithering about whether or not to touch him when, quite without warning, he emitted a high-pitched scream. It was so piercing and so loud that it made me take a step back involuntarily. Which was just as well, because he clearly didn’t want me anywhere near him. But as I backed away the intensity of the scream got even stronger.
Now what the hell did I do?

It might have been a few seconds, but it might equally have been minutes, but I was still standing there dithering, trying to decide upon a course of action, when salvation appeared to me in the form of Mike, who had just got home from work.

‘What the – ?’ he began, till I flapped a hand to silence him and could bundle him back into the hall.

‘I don’t know what to
do
!’ I whispered helplessly, glancing back at where Georgie, his blond locks swinging back and forth along with him, continued to scream the place down. ‘Jenson kicked off,’ I hissed, by way of explanation, ‘which is what seems to have started it. And I don’t know what on earth to do to try and stop it!’

Mike looked past me, back into the kitchen, where Georgie continued screaming. If it went on much longer he would surely lose his voice. Yet I was heedful of Harry’s warning about how carefully I needed to deal with him. Mike, though, was obviously in a more bullish frame of mind. ‘Georgie?’ he barked, in his most deep and authoritarian tone. ‘It’s okay, mate. No one is angry any more now. There’s nothing to be scared of. Calm down. It’s okay.’

The decibel level suddenly subsided markedly, I noticed, which seemed a good thing. Perhaps it meant he was listening. He clearly responded well to the depth of Mike’s voice.

‘It’s okay now,’ Mike said again, keeping a prudent two or three feet from him. ‘There is nothing to be scared of now. Everything’s okay.’

The screaming, bit by bit, began to morph into a whimper, and though Georgie still rocked and still had his hands clamped over his ears there was a sense that the tsunami of distress was now passing. He was finally beginning to calm down.

But it was a fragile sort of calm; he still seemed wired and not quite with us, a situation not improved by the reappearance of Jenson, who had obviously been upstairs sobbing, while he tackled his own demons. His face was wet and streaked and filthy. And seeing the three of us, he promptly burst into tears all over again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘I’m sorry, Casey.’ He gulped a little, wiped his eyes and turned his gaze to Georgie. ‘An’ I’m sorry to you as well,’ he sniffed, marching across to Georgie, where, with a wobbly little smile, he apologised again.

What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion, as is often the case when something comes at you right out of the blue. Georgie removed his hands from his ears and, with a grimace, accompanied by an inhuman-sounding growl, leapt from his chair and literally launched himself at Jenson. And it was some launch, as well; he pretty much hurled himself at him, as if unexpectedly called upon to wrestle a hungry bear. You couldn’t have witnessed a more dramatic, full-on, fists-flying assault if you’d been watching a Tom and Jerry cartoon.

Except this wasn’t funny, this was ugly, proper violence. This might have only been two 9-year-old boys having a scrap, except that Georgie clearly wasn’t like most 9-year-old boys. I’d read about it, heard about it, taken it all in – but that was nothing compared to seeing it in action. And something else was clear: Georgie might not be able to feel pain that deeply, but he sure as hell was good at inflicting it.

‘Arrgh!’ screamed Jenson, easily matching Georgie’s earlier volume. ‘Mike, gerr ’im off me!’ he said, as dining chairs clattered to the floor around them. ‘Gerr ’im
off
me! He’s a fucking nutter!’

It was probably only a matter of moments before Mike managed to do so, but it was a much bigger job that I think even he expected, and once they’d been separated I was horrified to see what damage had already been done. There was a nasty graze beginning to swell on Jenson’s cheek and, clutched tightly in Georgie’s fist, a shockingly big clump of Jenson’s hair.

And, of course, Jenson – now livid – was anxious to return the compliment, and had begun trying to thrash around and wriggle from Mike’s grip. ‘Lemme go!’ he screeched. ‘I’m going to fucking kill him, I am.
Kill
him!’

‘No, you’re
not
,’ Mike said firmly. ‘You are both going to
calm down
.’

Which Georgie by now
had
already done, after a fashion. Seemingly spent from his turn as a Tasmanian devil, once Mike had managed to extricate Jenson from his clutches he’d simply flopped. Flopped against
me
, more specifically. Though ‘flopped’ wasn’t really the word. He now leaned against me in the same way a step-ladder would: completely rigid, with his feet planted squarely on the floor, and with his head – he had his back to me, and I held his upper arms loosely – a heavy blond weight against my chest.

Jenson was still struggling, but with slightly less conviction now. ‘Just lemme go to my room,’ he sobbed to Mike now. ‘Just let me get
out
of here,
please
.’

Mike slowly released his grip. I could see he was still ready for further action, but we could soon tell Jenson had no fight left in him. Clutching his head – which, poor lad, must have been stinging like fury – he turned and once again thundered back off up the stairs.

I waited for the inevitable door slam, and he obliged me. Then I turned to Mike, my rigid human shield still leant against me.

‘Well,’ I mouthed helplessly. ‘What now?’

In the end, by a combination of cajoling and gently nudging, I managed to ‘herd’ a now completely mute Georgie into the living room. He was still glassy-eyed, but when I said the word ‘
Countdown
’ he seemed to shift gear, and seemed happy enough to let me arrange him on the sofa and wait meekly for the remote while I switched on the TV. Thank heavens for Sky, I thought, scrolling through the planner. Not to mention my great foresight in series linking the programme.

I returned to the kitchen to find Mike filling the kettle.

‘Well, that was fun,’ I said, bringing the dirty dishes to the sink. I felt so sorry for my poor husband – what a thing to come home to after a hard day at work! ‘God knows how we bring them back from this,’ I said, sighing. That bald patch of Jenson’s would be something to see. ‘God, I hope this sort of thing isn’t going to become a regular occurrence!’

Mike shook his head as he spooned instant coffee into mugs for us. ‘I sincerely hope not,’ he said. ‘And nothing to do with poor Jenson himself, obviously, but perhaps it’s for the best that he’s off pretty soon, eh? I have a hunch that having the two of them here isn’t going to work.’