Nowhere to Go (3 page)

To which Tyler responded by flicking his hood back up, getting up, shoving his hands into his tracksuit bottom pockets and following Mike, without a word, out of the room.

‘And if I know Casey,’ I heard Mike say as they headed up the stairs, ‘you might have to move some clutter to make some room for all your bits and bobs.’

I didn’t hear Tyler’s reply.

‘Well,’ said John, taking off his reading glasses and running a hand though his hair, ‘as meetings go, that one felt a little pointless, didn’t it? Though if it’s any consolation, he’s been giving the respite carers a pretty tough time of it, so it’s nothing personal.’ He grinned. ‘In fact, the last thing they said to me was that if they hadn’t already planned their holiday, they would have done so by now.’

I smiled. ‘That bad, eh?’ I helped myself to one of the Jaffa Cakes. ‘Anyway, I didn’t think that – it’s hardly surprising he’s off with us, is it? What with the court case and everything. Assuming that’s still happening. Is it?’

‘I’m afraid it looks like it,’ John said. ‘It’s the knife. If there hadn’t been the knife involved, he might have got away with a stern telling off, particularly given his age, but as it stands, and with the way the stepmother seems so determined to make him pay, then, yes, court seems inevitable. You’ll probably be asked to speak up for him, too, as no doubt you already know. Well, if that proves possible.’ He gave me a wry smile.

‘Optimism, John, okay? That’s the thing here. And, well, there you go,’ I added. ‘He’s probably bricking it, wondering what the hell is going to become of him. Don’t worry, John. We’ll get him on track. Warm him up. Make him see we’re on his side. One day at a time, eh? More coffee?’

John accepted a second cup and while Mike took his time upstairs (he knew the drill) caught me up on a couple of things that he hadn’t mentioned in front of Tyler, including some more specific details surrounding his exclusion; Tyler’s aggressive streak was, it seemed, a thick one. And that wasn’t the only reason John was pleased to hear I’d persuaded the head of the local comp to take him in. He’d also managed to glean that because the family had recently moved house the younger brother, Grant, was now in the comp’s catchment area – he was currently in year six of one of their feeder primaries, which meant, in theory, that come September, assuming Tyler was still with us, the boys would at least be reunited in school.

‘It’s definitely looking that serious, then?’ I asked him. ‘No family reconciliation looking likely?’

‘You can never say never,’ John said, ‘but we’re working on the worst case scenario. From what they’re saying at the moment, this is very much a last straw situation – who knows what the dad would do if left to his own devices, but as of now their position’s clear – they are washing their hands of him. This isn’t his first violent outburst at home, apparently – far from it. And, given what we know of his behaviour in school, we have to believe the family are telling the truth. They clearly don’t have a clue what to do with him any more.’

At the age of just 11. It was heartbreaking. How had it come to that? It wasn’t even as if he was a particularly big, strong boy, either. How had he come to be an object of such fear?

‘So he’s going on the programme with us?’ I asked, mentally rolling my sleeves up. ‘Doing all the usual points and levels?’

‘Definitely,’ John said. ‘Starting asap.’

The ‘programme’ was what our kind of fostering was mostly based on. When a child first arrived they would be on a regime of very basic privileges, including TV time, computer time and time playing out with friends. In order to do any of those things, a child would have to ‘buy’ the time they needed, using the points that they accumulated each day. To earn those points, they would be expected to do a number of set tasks, each of which carried a points value, and with which they could ‘buy’ things for the following day. The programme was tailored to each individual child and the tasks would differ according to their needs. We had siblings once, for example, who’d come from an extremely neglectful background and had no idea about personal hygiene. They would therefore go to the toilet almost anywhere in the house, then, after wiping themselves with their bare hands, smear excrement on the walls. Their programme therefore reflected this, being loaded with items such as ‘Do not poo or wee anywhere other than the toilet – 30 points’ and ‘Wash hands and face and brush teeth every morning and before bed – 30 points’, and so on. In Tyler’s case these basic life-skills were givens (we hoped) so his points would be geared mostly to good behaviour.

‘Okay,’ I said to John now, hearing Mike and Tyler coming back downstairs. ‘But I think “asap” should mean Monday. Let’s let the dust settle. See what the next couple of days throw up first. Give us a chance to get to know him a little better first, at least.’

‘Okay,’ said John, beginning to gather his papers up. ‘Sounds good. And I think it’s time I got out of your hair. Short and sweet, but I think our little chap has had enough of authority, don’t you?’ He smiled. ‘Don’t they all? Anyway, email me your proposed programme as soon as you have it and I’ll pass it on to the powers that be for the official sanction. Oh, and fix something up with Will Fisher – have him come round and meet you, fill you in a bit more, just as soon as he’s on top of things in the office, not to mention the case. He’s taken over several from Jenny, so it might be a week or so yet, unless you feel a pressing need to have him round here sooner?’

I shook my head. Mike and I were well used to going in blind. Yes, I was keen to hear more about Tyler’s background – that could only be helpful. But, unless there was some major crisis that required the social worker’s input, there was no desperate rush.

‘Well,’ Mike said, coming back in. ‘Tyler likes his room, don’t you, Tyler? And we’ve more or less worked out where all his stuff is going to go.’ He smiled across at Tyler, who was standing in the doorway, hood still up, chewing his nails. Mike grinned at him. ‘Cat got your tongue again, lad?’

And for his cheerfulness and patience he was amply rewarded – by an even more spectacular scowl than his previous ones.

Ouch, I thought, mirroring John’s raised eyebrows. Sleeves definitely up, then. This was going to be fun.

The next couple of days were spent establishing ground rules. Though we weren’t planning on starting Tyler on the behaviour management programme till the following Monday, we still needed to put some basic boundaries in place about what was and what wasn’t acceptable. After all, we knew virtually nothing about him – and what we did know didn’t put him in the best light, all told, since it mostly involved a knife and a school exclusion.

And the need for boundaries became clear before John had even left us; while he was still being kind, and helping bring his young charge’s things in, in fact.

‘Careful, you dickhead!’ he’d yelled at John, when the football annual he’d had wedged under his arm had accidentally fallen on the grass. He’d followed that gem up with an equally friendly explanation that ‘My mate Cameron nicked that for me!’

While John had chastised Tyler for his language – not to mention his ingratitude – I made a mental note of the name Cameron, for future reference.

I would soon learn who Cameron was, in any case, as Tyler’s response was to whine that it was the only thing he had to remind him of his best friend, upon which John (who obviously already knew) pointed out that, as Cameron only lived five minutes away from where we did, it was hardly as if they were at opposite ends of the world.

I took all this in as well, filing it in my brain automatically. And I was soon to learn more. Cameron, it seemed, was both Tyler’s friend and his hero – he talked about him so much that it soon became obvious that he was perhaps the most important role-model in his life. Though not necessarily of the positive kind – he was a 15-year-old boy Tyler had known since he’d moved in with his dad. And, from what I could glean, he was a bit of a neglected, latchkey kid – the only child of a single mum who was out all the time (for what reason Tyler knew not, but apparently not work), leaving her son to roam the estate where they lived. From what Tyler told me – of how he sofa-surfed, cadged rides and went to friends’ houses for food – I was surprised to learn that, as far as Tyler knew, anyway, he’d never been taken into care himself.

But it was the child in
our
care who preoccupied me most, not least because, despite Kieron’s confidence, given Tyler’s home background, he’d come with so little to call his own. He didn’t even have a case or holdall – just a green recycling bag filled with clothing, and a cardboard box full of old games and toys. There was the precious annual (separate only because he’d apparently been reading it on the journey), some tatty Marvel comics and figurines, a well-worn football and a torn photograph – of him as a baby, he said – that had been taped back together, plus, of course, the ubiquitous mobile phone. Needless to say, it didn’t take much time to find a place for everything, so it wasn’t long – after a longer tour around the house and garden – before we got our second taste of Tyler’s short temper.

We’d finally got him to remove his hoodie, at least, and I think that was only because it was such a warm day, and he had wandered into the front room to watch some TV, while I got started cooking our tea. I was making sausages and mash – a family favourite – and had just finished peeling the potatoes when I heard the commotion from the living room. Taking off my apron and drying my hands, I walked through to see what was going on. Tyler was standing by the window, clutching the remote control, his face angry and contorted. Mike was on his feet too, and was holding out his hand.

‘Just pass it back to me, Tyler,’ he was saying. ‘It’s a simple enough request. We don’t speak to each other like that in this house.’

‘And I said fuck off!’ Tyler yelled, glaring at poor Mike. ‘All I wanted to do was see if my cartoons were on. And
that’s
a simple enough ’quest an’ all!’

‘Tyler, you didn’t make a
request
,’ Mike answered levelly. ‘You just took the remote from beside me and changed the channel, without saying
anything
. I was watching something – which you could see – but I would have happily turned it over if you’d asked me.’

I went to join Mike. ‘Tyler, give Mike the remote back, please,’ I asked him nicely. ‘It’s almost tea time so there’s no time for cartoons just yet anyway, and, like Mike said, we won’t have that kind of language in this house.’

Tyler switched his glare to me then, and threw the remote onto the sofa, just missing Mike as it landed. ‘I knew this place would be shit!’ he said with a harsh and scornful laugh. ‘I won’t stay,’ he said. ‘I told that John. I’m not going to stay in this shit-hole!’ He then marched across the room, swerving past us.

I’d have probably let him go, but Mike stepped out to stop him. ‘Not so fast, young man,’ he said. ‘We’re not done here.’

‘Could you move,
please
?’ Tyler asked him.

‘In a moment,’ Mike replied. ‘But first of all you need to know this, Tyler. It doesn’t matter where you come from or what it is you are accustomed to, but we are the adults here, okay? We are entrusted to show you the ropes and look after you properly. And that includes teaching you about good manners and how to treat others. I’m going to let this go just now because it’s your first day here and it’s bound to be strange for you. But I’m telling you now that we don’t tolerate this kind of behaviour. Now go on, either go up to your room or go and play in the garden. Tea will be ready when Casey calls you, okay? It’s up to you if you’re hungry or not.’

I watched, open-mouthed, as Mike then stepped aside to let Tyler pass. Which he did, keeping it zipped as he stomped up the stairs. Mike stared after him, his expression one of intense irritation, as if he’d just hit the point when it all came flooding back – just what fostering a kid like this was actually going to entail. ‘Wow,’ I said, once I knew Tyler was safely out of earshot. ‘That was impressive. Like riding a bike, eh? Or did you have that rehearsed?’

He shook his head, and sat back down on the sofa. ‘Didn’t need to,’ he said, picking up the remote from where Tyler had flung it. ‘You know, I actually even had my
hand
on this when he took it. Just marched up, pulled it from under my hand, and turned the telly over without so much as a bloody word! If he’d said anything at all –
anything
– I’d have given him the bloody thing without a second thought. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be spoken to like that for nothing!’

Mike was talking as if he felt he needed to justify giving Tyler a dressing down, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. He’d dealt with him brilliantly, without raising his voice, or showing anger – just using quiet but firm authority. Yet I could see he was rattled about it, and that rattled me. It
had
been a long time since we’d had a child in, and an even longer time since we’d had a boy – well, if you didn’t count the babies – because our last had been a teenage girl. It had been an even longer time since we’d had a boy of Tyler’s age and level of anger, and I wondered if it wasn’t hitting home to Mike, even as he sat there, just how much of the boundary-maintenance would naturally fall to him.

‘Come help me sort the tea out?’ I asked him, even though I didn’t actually need any. ‘Fingers crossed the message has hit home, and he’ll be down for his tea, and we can start again on a more positive note. It’ll sink in,’ I added, as he rose to join me, his expression still very much one that said,
What have we got ourselves into here?
‘You know how it goes, love,’ I reassured him. ‘Sooner or later it will.’

Mike sighed heavily as he followed me through to the kitchen. ‘Let’s hope it’s sooner then, eh?’ he said, as he began gathering up the potato peelings. ‘At least I can escape to work, love. You don’t have that luxury.’ He picked up the vegetable knife, and I knew exactly what he was thinking as he studied it. ‘You might have to be braced for this sort of thing every day.’

That little incident, minor though it was, set a tone that lasted into the weekend. Tyler, perhaps understandably, didn’t want to be with us. Which was not to say he wanted to be home – not with the ‘witch’ living there, anyway – but it didn’t make him any keener on making friends with us. He’d come down to tea and seemed to enjoy it – albeit in a dogged silence – but he seemed entirely resistant to the idea of my hastily penned ‘house rules’. I’d run them up that Thursday evening, as a taster of what was coming on the Monday, including such staples as no swearing, respect others in the house, bed at 8.00 p.m., lights out at 9.00 p.m.

All of them were broken within a day. And were broken several times over by the end of the following week, so by the time the next Saturday rolled around it was less a question of what rules he’d broken than casting about to find one he hadn’t. Worse than that, on that Saturday – after I’d had to tell Tyler off about his bad language for what felt like the tenth time that day – Kieron called in to see us after his morning football session. He couldn’t have chosen a more inopportune time.

‘Afternoon!’ I heard him call through the house. I was sorting the washing out in the back porch and hurried back inside. Tyler was in the living room, and this would be the first time they encountered one another. And it was a relationship I was hoping to nurture.

‘Oh hi, love,’ I said as I saw Tyler, who was sprawled across the sofa, eyeing up Kieron with curiosity. ‘Good game? This is Tyler,’ I added. ‘He’s into football, too, aren’t you, Tyler?’

‘Nice one,’ said Kieron. ‘Good to meet you at last, mate. What team do you support?’

Tyler looked like he might answer, but then his face changed and he shrugged. He then turned his attention back to the TV in what was unquestionably a deliberate snub. I bridled. Kieron might be 25, and he might not give a damn about the opinion of this arsey 11-year-old stranger, but I felt affronted and angry on his behalf. I knew it wouldn’t bother him that much, but I also knew the way my son’s mind worked – he found rudeness of any kind particularly difficult to process. Yes, he was better than he’d been as a child – the world of work had toughened him up a bit in that regard – but that was work and this was home (his family home, even if he no longer lived with us) and he shouldn’t have to put up with some little tyke being rude to him within it.

‘Tyler,’ I said pointedly, ‘Kieron was asking you a question, love. He asked you which team you supported.’

I waited, hoping to force him into continuing the conversation. I soon wished I hadn’t.

‘And I heard him!’ he snapped back, quick as you like. ‘And I told him I don’t know!’

He launched himself off the sofa, then, and for a moment I thought he was going to run at me and rugby tackle me, but instead he headed straight for Kieron and the open door. ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you people just leave me
alone
?’

‘Hey!’ Kieron barked. ‘Less of the lip. You don’t talk to my mum like that, Tyler, do you hear?’

Tyler ignored him, barging past him and stomping out of the living room, slamming the door behind him for good measure.

‘What the hell?’ Kieron said, shaking his head. ‘Was it something I said?’

I squeezed his arm. ‘No, love,’ I said. ‘He’s been like this since he got here. Take no notice. He’s on his last gasp, in any case. Me and your dad are giving him the weekend to settle down a bit and then we’ll start to work on that God-awful behaviour of his. You know what it’s like,’ I added, picking up the remote and silencing the din from the TV. ‘He’s come from a really bad place, love. And he’s currently “adjusting”.’

Kieron grinned. ‘Mum,
all
the kids you have come from a bad place. He’s just – did you hear that? Was that the front door I just heard go?’

I sighed heavily. He wasn’t planning on doing a runner, was he? Now, that would be a
great
start. I ran to the front window. ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ I said. ‘He’s just taken his football out into the front garden. Maybe he’s going to have a kick-about to calm himself down.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Kieron answered wryly. ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t decided to try take it out on the house.’

No sooner had Kieron said that than I was reminded of one of my mum’s famous sayings:
Many a true word is spoken in jest
.

The sudden thud was almighty. ‘Jesus! He bloody is!’ I said in amazement, watching his antics. ‘He’s purposely kicking the ball at the front door!’

And hard, too. Kieron joined me at the window just as the second ‘hit’ landed. This time, however, it wasn’t the door we heard rattle. It was the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. ‘What the …?’ Kieron spluttered, before rushing out into the hall. I followed him, desperately hoping that it had been an unfortunate accident, but knowing, without a doubt, that it was not.

‘Kieron!’ I said, as he yanked the front door open, ‘just stay calm, love. Let’s see what he has to say for himself first.’ Too late.

‘I saw that!’ Kieron shouted at Tyler, as I surveyed the puddle of broken glass shards that had rained down from the side panel of my front door. ‘You kicked that ball at that pane of glass on purpose!’

‘Did I fuck!’ Tyler responded. ‘You want your eyes testing!
God
,’ he added, stabbing a tightly balled fist into each hip, ‘see what I mean? I get the blame for
everything
in this shit-hole!’

Kieron skewered him on the end of a premier-league scowl and hoicked a thumb behind him. ‘Get inside right now!’ he said. ‘And don’t think I won’t pick you up and bring you in,’ he added.

At which point I decided to intervene. I didn’t want the neighbours’ curtains twitching at my latest drama, but nor did I want Tyler antagonising my son. ‘There’ll be no need to do that, love,’ I said quietly to Kieron. ‘Tyler,
get
in here,
now
! I
mean
it.’

But if I thought my own brand of hard talking would do the trick, I was wrong. ‘Fuck off, you fat bitch!’ he yelled back, leaving me stunned.
Fat
? I knew I’d put on a few pounds in the last year or so (sympathy eating for two and spending too much time with hungry grandsons), but at just under ten stone I preferred to think I was pleasantly plump – at the very worst. Cheeky little sod! But I barely had time to reply when my son barged past me and made a grab for him. ‘In here! Now!’ he said, gripping Tyler firmly by his right shoulder, clearly offended by the weight-slur on my behalf. And if that surprised me, I was totally gobsmacked by what happened next. The 11-year-old whirlwind whirled and, despite the difference in their heights, managed to land a punch that hit Kieron firmly on the chin. Clearly taken aback, Kieron nevertheless held on while Tyler tried to capitalise on his advantage by kicking him in the shins. If it wasn’t so horrifying it would have been comical. Kieron, my six foot three beanpole of a son, was skipping around, trying to fend off kicks, punches and bites, while this little scrap of a kid gave it everything he had. And not just physically – he was giving his all vocally as well, turning the air blue with his colourful language.