The Boy No One Loved and Crying for Help 2-in-1 Collection

‘So just before he got fostered.’

John smiled ruefully at me. ‘Pass. There may have been another placement in between. I don’t know. Could have been back with his mum, even, for a time. But Mona said they were actually pretty close for a while. Well, she thought so; she said he struggled to make attachments to anyone, really, but she liked to think she’d broken through to some extent.

‘Anyway, seemed it all went pear shaped; there was this incident. Another child in the home – a boy, couple of years younger – complained that Justin had been burning him with a lighter. And as he had the burns to prove it, Mona obviously followed it up. Had to question Justin, naturally, and the thing that really got to her was his reaction to being questioned – apparently it really scared her. She said he may have been only a young child, but that there was something about his expression – well, you already know, Casey – you’ve seen it, and you’ve described it. Well, it worried her. Really made her uneasy. Anyway, he called her ‘a fat bitch’ and apparently challenged her to prove it, which of course, she couldn’t, and that was that.

‘Anyway, the upshot was that he never spoke to her again. Not once. Though she said he’d always smile sweetly at her in passing. She’d never forget him, she told me – and I think she’s feeling for you now. You know what her last words were?’

‘Go on, John – surprise me.’

‘That he’s a newspaper headline waiting to happen.’

John’s words – or rather Mona’s – stayed with me all day. Kept me awake that night and still sat on my shoulder the next morning. It had been a spine-tingling moment, sitting there in my kitchen with John. I’d always had that sense that Justin was the human equivalent of a simmering pot, always about to boil over. Had had it since the first time we ever met him, even before he came to live with us. Now, though, armed with all this new information, I didn’t just have my gut instinct confirmed, I also knew that when the explosions came, they were likely to be of more volcanic proportions.

But it wasn’t just a case of dealing with the straightforward venting of Justin’s simmering anger. The damage to him was deep and the manifestations of it were highly complex, as I was to find out, only a couple of days later, for myself.

We’d been really pleased, the following week, to see some evidence of Justin seemingly beginning to fit in more with his peers – he’d been talking a bit about a boy he’d befriended, whose name was Gregory and who apparently had some challenges of his own to deal with; he had learning difficulties, or so Justin informed us, and lived with his aunt, as his mother ‘couldn’t cope with him’.

We’d already met Gregory a couple of times as he and Justin had started walking home from school together, along with his aunt, and he would sometimes invite them to call into our house for a drink and a biscuit on the way. I got on well with Aunt Jennie, and the two of us had shared a couple of coffees together whilst the boys had half an hour on the PlayStation. She never outstayed her welcome and I was happy that Justin seemed to have made a friendship that was lasting beyond the usual week or two.

I wasn’t too surprised, then, when one day Justin burst through the door after school and started to plead with me for Gregory to come over for a sleepover.

‘Oh, please,’ he begged. ‘Can Greg sleep at our house this Saturday? He’s asked his auntie and she said it’s okay if you say so. Oh, please, Casey. Please say he can.’ But though I might not have been surprised, I was also unsure. A sleepover was quite a big thing for us to contemplate, and was also something that could be construed as a ‘reward’ on his programme, for which he would need to earn points.

Plus he hadn’t known Gregory that long yet. ‘I don’t know, love,’ I said, to give myself time to discuss things with Mike, and maybe John. ‘You’ve not known each other long, and your room isn’t that big, and …’

‘Oh please Casey,’ he interrupted, eyes wide, looking hopeful. ‘I’m begging you. We could easily make a bed up on my floor.’

He looked so sincere, and so excited at the prospect, that my resolve started to weaken immediately. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘No promises, but here’s what I’ll do. If you ask Greg to get his aunt to call me tomorrow, so we can have a chat, then maybe – just maybe, mind – we could give it a try.’

Saturday came and along with it the sleepover, which, following various chats and some hard thinking, we had now agreed could take place. I had spoken to Jennie, who had filled me in a little more about Greg. He had attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), she told me, and was on medication, but that wasn’t anything I couldn’t deal with. I’d also spoken to Mike, and had a quick word with John, and we’d all agreed that this would be a good opportunity for Justin to develop his social skills. And this was something that so far, he seemed keen to impress us with – since I’d told him I’d consider it, he’d been a model of good behaviour, tidying his room and repeatedly promising that I wouldn’t have to lift a finger or get anything organised; he would do absolutely everything.

And true to his word, he did just that, making up the bed on his floor by himself, and then, once Greg had arrived and settled in, not only showing him how to work one of his PlayStation games, but also allowing him to play with his precious toy soldiers. I smiled as I served them a special fish and chip supper. I needn’t have worried, I realised. He was doing himself proud.

But perhaps I should have listened to my instincts more keenly, and been a little slower to relax. It was around eleven in the evening when I heard what sounded like a scream, coming from Justin’s room.

‘Did you hear that?’ I asked Mike, reaching automatically for the remote, so I could check if my ears were working right. We were nearing the end of a movie by now and all had been quiet since I’d gone up to tuck them in at around ten, having allowed an extra half-hour with the lights and TV on.

‘I definitely heard something,’ Mike confirmed, getting up. ‘I’ll go and check. They’re probably just messing about.’ He headed off, seeming largely unconcerned, which was reassuring. ‘You’ll have to tell me what I missed when I get back.’

Two minutes later, however, I was far from reassured to hear Mike’s voice from upstairs too – I could tell he was shouting. I leapt up to go and join him and really give the boys what for. I should have known they’d play up at some point.

But what greeted me was not ‘playing up’ in any normal sense. I entered the bedroom to find Justin standing at the side of his bed, with a very strange look on his face. It took me a few moments to process what was happening. Mike was kneeling on the floor close by, glaring at him, and it was then that I noticed that Gregory was huddled beneath a duvet on the floor between them. I could hear Gregory sobbing and groaning from inside it, clearly reluctant to give it up, while Mike was trying to prise it from around him.

‘What the hell is going on?’ I said, looking from Mike to Justin. Justin simply stared at me, his features hardening. ‘Mike?’ I persisted.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ he said, turning to me. ‘But I think he’s hurt Greg in some way.’ He pointed his finger at Justin as he spoke. ‘That’s all I know, because neither of them will tell me. All I’ve managed to get out of Greg is that Justin’s really hurt him and that he wants to go home to his auntie. ‘C’mon mate,’ he said, giving another gentle tug on the duvet. ‘Let’s get you out of there and see how you’re doing.’

I got down on my knees and put my arms around Greg through the duvet. ‘It’s okay sweetheart,’ I said gently as Mike moved aside to make room. Perhaps he’d respond better to a female voice. ‘Let’s just have a look at you, eh? Then we can phone your Auntie Jennie.’

Greg slowly peeked out now, sobbing loudly. ‘J … J … Justin b … b … burned me, Casey. He’s a big meanie and he should have a smack. I want Auntie Jennie to come.’ His sobs began to grow even louder. ‘I want her to come and make me better!’

He was clearly very traumatised and I was devastated. I’d been so full of hope, and felt badly let down. What on earth had Justin done to the poor kid? ‘Justin!’ I snapped, ‘Tell me what you’ve done to Greg, you hear me!’

I don’t know what it was about the tone of my voice, but it seemed to finally shock him into talking. ‘I just wanted to see what would happen,’ he said plaintively. ‘That was all, Casey, honest. I just thought it would be interesting to see!’

‘What would be interesting?’ I barked at him.

‘What the wax did.’

I felt alarm bells ringing. ‘Wax? What wax?’

‘In the tea-light,’ he said. ‘The wax in the tea-light!’

It turned out, then, through a series of halting half-sentences, that what Justin had decided would be ‘interesting’ would be to witness what would happen if he melted a candle – he’d taken both some matches and a tea-light from the kitchen, he admitted – and poured the hot molten wax onto Gregory’s skin.

‘I didn’t think it would hurt him,’ he protested. ‘I only wanted to peel it back off when it set.’

I was both speechless and furious with him, and Mike was livid. He could barely look at, let alone speak to, Justin, as he picked Gregory up to carry him downstairs.

‘Get to bed, young man,’ I told him as I followed Mike out. ‘Not a peep – we’ll be dealing with you in the morning!’

I then had the unenviable task of phoning Jennie and explaining to her what had happened. It was almost midnight by now, and I felt awful that she had to rush around at this hour. She wouldn’t hear of us driving Gregory home ourselves, since we didn’t know the way, so she had to come out herself – probably the last thing she expected – to collect her frightened and traumatised nephew.

Worst of all was that, seeing how upset we both were, she made it clear that we mustn’t feel in any way responsible. She knew, she said, that Gregory was a vulnerable child, and blamed herself for allowing him to sleep out.

The next day we went through the usual sanctions with Justin. No privileges, no TV and no PlayStation. Not much of a punishment for most kids, I imagine, but to Justin, such losses were torture.

But about the motivation behind his own form of ‘torture’ I was ambivalent. It had really seemed that he had no notion of the pain he’d inflicted, and I wondered if he was so used to extreme pain himself, via his bouts of self-harming, that he genuinely didn’t think he’d hurt Gregory that much. It was either that, or that he did know, which made for an equally depressing picture.

Either way, it was a wake-up call for both of us. Not to mention being a stark reminder of Mona’s chilling prophecy.

But incidents such as this, I mused, once my initial shock had died down, were exactly what our kind of fostering was about. It may have been shocking to see what had previously been just a set of notes actually happening in our midst, but this was why I’d wanted to do it so badly in the first place. This – this whole tapestry of tragedy heaped on tragedy, and all the far-reaching ramifications – was exactly what drove Mike and I. I just hoped we could unpick all the bad threads that were making a muddle of the rest, and so succeed where so many others had failed. But I knew now, more than ever, that this would be a tall order. A real challenge. Justin seemed more complex by the minute.

‘Curry or pizza or Chinese – what’s your preference?’

It was the following Saturday morning and Mike and Kieron were off to football as per usual. It had been a quiet sort of week since all the revelations and rearrangements, but, even so, I felt shattered and not at all like cooking a big family dinner. Tonight I had a date with a take-away and the telly and someone else would definitely be doing the washing up.

‘Curry!’ Mike, Kieron and Justin all said together, though Justin’s contribution came from the behind the PlayStation controller that he was, as ever, feverishly playing on. Indeed, today, having only just got his privileges back, he was even more obsessed with it than usual. One day, perhaps, we’d get him off to football with the boys, but today wasn’t the day, I thought, to push it.

It had been much colder than usual, with a bitingly chilly wind, and I was actually happy to spend the day indoors myself, my scheduled mooch around the shops with Riley having been cancelled a little while back because she’d been feeling a bit off-colour. I did miss my daughter, though, and felt a little redundant as I dragged the mop and bucket out from the cleaning cupboard.

She’d said she might pop round later and, if not, I might stroll down to hers, but it was probably a good thing for me to catch up with a bit of housework and cleaning in the meantime; I’d forgotten, and had been forcibly reminded by having Justin, that having an extra person in the house created a lot of extra dust. And I definitely couldn’t be having that.

‘That’s a shame,’ I said, grinning. ‘Because I fancy Chinese …’ I pushed my sleeves up. ‘Only kidding. Now get out from under my feet. And you, Justin,’ – I paused here, to look at my watch – ‘have only forty-seven minutes of TV time left before I stage a takeover of the sofa and remote!’

I’d planned, as is my slightly obsessive way with housework, on making a circuit of the upstairs bedrooms, stripping beds as I went, before embarking on a big upstairs dustathon. And since Justin’s was the first door on the left once up the stairs, it seemed logical to tackle that room first.

It was, as it had been for a little while now, a mess, but in a good way. Since the last time he’d stripped it back to basics, he’d now got most of his belongings out again. There was dirty washing piled up in a heap behind the door, DVDs and cases strewn around the floor, and the carpet was actually a small sea of toy soldiers, which looked like they’d originally been set up in ranks but were now, given that they were mostly lying prostrate all over the place, in the last throes of some important battle or other, during which almost all of them had been slaughtered.