Just a Boy (3 page)

A lesson for us all. And as Mike predicted, an eye-opening two days.

The next title in the series. Read an exclusive excerpt now.

I managed to get hold of Marie straight away.

‘I’m sorry I’ve not called you yet,’ she apologised immediately. ‘I know John’s put you in the picture – at least, I assume he has – has he?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I answered. ‘It’s –’

‘It’s just that the hearing was scheduled for p.m. rather than a.m., so I don’t have any news yet, and –’

Now it was my turn to interrupt. ‘I do,’ I said, getting straight to the point. This was no time for chit-chat. ‘Jenson’s absconded from school.’

Marie groaned. ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘So I’m assuming he’s gone to do what he admitted was the plan: meet up with his sister and head home to see Mum.’

‘And of course, she might already be on her way home from the hearing by now, too. I need to get round there. We need to get round there …’

‘Absolutely. So if you can let me have the address?’

Marie reeled it off for me. I didn’t need to write it down. It was local, and I knew it. I just made a mental note of the house number.

‘Okay,’ I said, pulling off my apron. ‘Thanks. I’ll get going, then. Let’s just hope it doesn’t become unpleasant. And what should I say to her if I get there before you?’

‘Which you probably will, because I’m bound to get stuck in traffic. Just keep it light. Tell her who you are and that you were worried about him running off. Tell her you don’t know any more than that. I think that’s the best way.’

This was actually the truth, I thought, as I jumped in my car and fired the engine. And Marie didn’t know much more because she hadn’t yet been told the outcome of the hearing. It was perfectly possible the judge had decided to let the children go home. Either way, Marie had assured me that she’d find out before she got there.

Jenson’s estate was a big sprawling one, built in the fifties or sixties; certainly at a time before everyone had cars. Every road I drove down had a ribbon of them on either side, all of them listing a little, looking like rows of sleeping animals, half up on the pavement, half in the kerb, leaving just a sliver of road to squeeze my car through. I had to park way past the house, which was showing no signs of life – but which perhaps wouldn’t, given this was a sunny early summer afternoon. I hurried back and headed up the front path – there was a gate, but it too was listing – but my knocks on the blue-painted front door produced nothing but an empty echo, which reverberated down the equally empty hallway I could see through the heavily frosted glass.

Not that this meant anything. He wasn’t going to answer the door, was he? If he was smart, which I thought he was, he would have been keeping an eye out. He would want to see who was out there before risking revealing himself. And if he didn’t like what he saw then he would simply lay low – with or without his older sister.

There was little I could do except wait for Marie to arrive. And then, presumably, for Karen to show up. I stepped back from the door and scanned the street. Jenson could be anywhere. He’d probably have dozens of friends he could go to. It was a huge estate, and one I knew well from my days as a school behaviour manager. I used to visit families here regularly, as part of my job involved visiting troubled kids in their home settings and talking to their families about how they could help their kids better. I’d sit and discuss strategies, talk about boundaries and discipline, then I’d help them create reward charts – I’d always come armed with stars and stickers – to help them try and curb their teenagers’ less delightful behaviours.

It seemed a long time ago, now, and in some ways it was. I’d been fostering for almost half a decade now; some
very
intense years.

I was just reflecting on how much my life had changed since I answered that fostering agency ad when I became aware of a ‘psst!’ sound close to me. I turned to see a woman on the doorstep of the neighbouring semi, silently beckoning that I should step a little closer.

She wore one of those old-fashioned wrap-around aprons that look like dresses, and drew a finger to her lip as I approached. ‘Are you one of the social workers?’ she wanted to know.

I shook my head, and keeping my voice low to match hers I explained that, no, I was Jenson’s foster carer.

‘My name’s Casey,’ I added. ‘Do you know something about his whereabouts?’

She cocked her head back. ‘The lad’s in my garden,’ she told me, ‘waiting for his mum to get home. Playing with my dog. He loves my Sabre, he does. I expect he’s missed him.’

She looked to be in her sixties, and had that bustling, sleeves-up, no-nonsense air of a woman used to looking after herself. I imagined Sabre as a hulking great Alsatian, and her motto to be ‘I speak as I find’.

‘Come in to the front room,’ she commanded, gesturing with her hand as she led the way into her hall. The house smelt of lavender polish, with an undercurrent of onions. She’d obviously been cooking. Something wholesome, I didn’t doubt. ‘So’s he won’t see you,’ she elaborated. ‘Though what you’re going to do with him, I don’t know. He’s bound to kick off once he knows you’ve tracked him down.’

‘Do you know what’s happening?’ I asked, still keeping my voice low. ‘Have you seen his mother?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Not half an hour ago. She’s been back and gone straight out again. And she’s fuming. They’ve apparently told her she’s got to have some report or something done on her. Anyway, she’s gone off to fetch her Carley from her mate’s house, or so she tells me. She might just have gone off on the piss. That wouldn’t surprise me. And then me laddo here turns up a couple of minutes later. And can’t get in, of course. So I told him he could stop here for a bit. But I’m not happy about it. Not happy at all. If Karen finds out it was me called social services, she’ll give me a right gob full …’

‘So Jenson doesn’t know anything about his mum coming back yet – what’s been happening or what’s going to happen? Did you tell him?’

‘Good lord, no!’ the woman told me. ‘I’ll leave all that to you lot, since you’re here now.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But what about the social worker? Are you allowed to just take him, then? That’s if he’ll go with you anyway. No offence, but I doubt he will. Not without a fight.’

‘The social worker is on her way,’ I reassured her. ‘And don’t worry – we can leave her to deal with that side of things. I’m sure that between us we’ll be able to get him to see reason, bless him. At least I hope so. The last thing she’ll want is to have to drag him off against his will.’

The neighbour’s expression changed a little. ‘Poor lad,’ she mused. ‘He’s a handful, I know. But it isn’t right, is it?’

I shook my head, aware that I must be a bit circumspect. ‘It’s not good, for sure.’

‘But you know,’ she said, beckoning again that I should follow her into a different room, ‘it’s not his fault. It really isn’t. Sometimes I see them together and I could weep for him, I really could. It’s so obvious to everyone how different she treats them bairns. Blatant, it is. But it’s always been that way – they probably told you all about it – since all that business with the little one …’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Well, I don’t care what the circumstances were, it’s not right, it isn’t –
anyone
can see that. Anyway, cup of tea, love? Might as well.’

My antennae twitching, I followed the woman into her small and pristine kitchen, and was just about to ask what she meant by ‘all that business with the little one’ when the poor lad himself exploded indoors through the back door, closely followed by a ‘Heinz 57 varieties’ kind of wiry-haired dog.

The dog leapt upon me with great enthusiasm – nothing remotely Alsatian-ish about it – but Jenson, understandably, stopped dead in his tracks. As well he might. I was obviously the last person he expected to see. But he gathered himself up defiantly. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ he told me, scowling. ‘I’m waiting for me mum and then I’m goin’ home and you can’t stop me.’ He looked at his neighbour, then, presumably for corroboration.

But she was rescued from having to answer by a ring on her doorbell. Which she hurried off to answer.

‘I’m not,’ Jenson began. ‘I’m not coming. You can’t make me.’ Then I watched his face fall further. ‘Oh, God,’ he said, in his world-weary voice, seeing Marie approaching down the hall. ‘God! What is she doin’ here?’

But Marie was impressive. While the neighbour – Mrs Clark – and I swapped phone numbers, in case it happened again, she calmly dealt with the situation like a pro. Within minutes Jenson had turned from a furious whirling dervish to, if not a happy, at least a calm and reasonably compliant bunny, prepared to accept, albeit grudgingly, the way things had to be.

‘But when
can
I see her?’ he asked mournfully, and my heart really went out to him. He’d gone to all that trouble (and what, come to think of it, had happened to his sister?) yet he’d missed his mum by minutes. And now he was being told he had to go straight back home with me. I think I would have kicked off, under the circumstances.

‘Well,’ Marie said, ‘I will have to double-check this, obviously, but if you go with Casey now,’ she glanced at me, ‘then I think I’m pretty safe in promising that you will be able to see Mum after school tomorrow. Assuming you
go
to school, that is. And assuming you
stay
in school, as well. No running off, or Mum will just get into
more
trouble. D’you understand that?’

Jenson looked crushed suddenly, and I wished Marie hadn’t placed such emphasis on the word ‘more’ there. Because Jenson had obviously leapt on it immediately. And I watched his eyes begin to fill with tears again. ‘So is it my fault?’ he said brokenly. ‘Is she in trouble cos I ran off from school today – is that it?’

‘Good lord, no!’ Marie reassured him. ‘No, not at
all
, Jenson.’ She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Of course you
shouldn’t
have run off – you know that, don’t you?’ Jenson nodded. ‘You should have done as Casey and Mike said, shouldn’t you?’ He nodded again. ‘But the judge decided what he decided before he even knew that. It’s not your fault, Jenson. It was because Mum went on holiday, that was all. Because you’re too young to be left – both of you; you and Carley are both too young, and she should have realised it wasn’t appropriate to do that … that’s all.’

Jenson turned to me now, wiping a sleeve across the end of his nose, obviously keen not to get either himself or his mother into any further trouble. ‘I’m sorry for running off, Casey,’ he said forlornly. Which made me want to scoop him up and hug him, but I resisted. It would probably just set him off crying all over again.

‘That’s okay, sweetie,’ I said instead. ‘You just gave us all a bit of a fright, that’s all. No harm done.’ I ruffled his hair. ‘As long as you
don’t do it again
, okay? Anyway, let’s have this drink, shall we? Then we’ll get you back to ours. Honestly, I can’t believe you were all set to leave us without your new DS!’

Which raised a smile at last.

And Jenson did seem to cheer up as we headed back to our house, and delighted in explaining to me how he’d figured out his escape plan.

‘I know the main gates get locked,’ he explained. ‘They have to do that cos of paedophiles and serial killers and that – so when it was lunchtime I went to the fence round the field. It’s a long fence, and there’s always bits where it’s a bit broken and that. An’ most of it leads on to a big road round the back, and it’s good because the offices an’ that are on the other side, so they can’t see you. An’ I found a place really easy, so that bit was okay …’

‘And off you went.’

‘No, I couldn’a gone then. Cos of the afternoon register. So I had to wait till I got a chance –’

‘Which you were lucky to get, by all accounts.’

He looked sheepish. ‘Yeah, well … an’ so I had to take it, didn’t I? An’ then I just legged it over the field, took my school sweatshirt off, so no one would tell I was a school kid, and legged it all the way home.’

If I’d suppressed a smile at ‘paedophiles and serial killers an’ that’, I was hard pushed to do so at his delightful 9-year-old reasoning that if he took off his sweatshirt no one would know he was a ‘school kid’. An image came to mind, then, of an alternative universe. One in which there were two grades of child – the normal, school-going kind, and an underclass of other kids, who were occupied differently. Little chimney sweeps, vagabonds and Dickensian-style urchins, who roamed the streets when the rest were doing their sums. ‘So,’ I asked, ‘what about your sister? What about Carley?’

The made him scowl. ‘She an’ Mum had already gone – I
knew
they would! I just knew it!’

‘Gone where?’

Jenson shrugged. ‘Round Gary’s, most probly. I bet Carley didn’t think I’d do it. But I
did
!’

I decided not to probe further into the machinations of Jenson’s family. Best not to inflame things further and get him all wound up again. But one thing was for sure – it didn’t augur well for the outcome, in terms of getting Jenson home again. I had just the one impression of his mum so far – irresponsible. No, actually, two. Irresponsible and neglectful. And just what was the business with ‘the little one’ all about?

I pulled up outside the house and asked Jenson what he’d like for tea. I would find out soon enough, no doubt. Or wouldn’t. Either way, what would be would be.

Because I hadn’t been expecting to hear anything from anyone again till the following morning, when the house phone rang later I was sure that this time it had to be my mother. I hadn’t even heard it, in fact, because I was clearing up the dinner things while listening to my favourite fifties and sixties golden-oldie radio station. As this was generally the signal for anyone else in the house to scarper, I whacked it up loud and invariably sang along.

So the first I knew of the call was when Jenson appeared in the kitchen doorway, just in time to catch my interpretation of a jaunty Sandie Shaw number.

‘Oh!’ I said, seeing him and turning the radio down. There was something of a shocked expression on his face, and I felt slightly self-conscious to have been caught jigging around – or what did they call it now, throwing shapes? – in my kitchen. And judging by the way he was looking at me, so did he. ‘Sorry, love,’ I added, wiping my hands and taking the phone from him. He gave me a priceless head shake and returned to watching TV with Mike.