A Boy Without Hope

As opposed to this circus, I thought. Then caught myself half hoping it might be true, so that it was a decision that wouldn’t be mine to make. I silently berated myself. I had to do this wholeheartedly, or not at all.

And Tyler was right. Since the morning’s meeting I had been receiving bits of information all day. Christine had been busy; I’d had several phone calls and emails, and the bigger picture was now becoming clear. Absconding appeared to be one of Miller’s favourite activities. And he didn’t do things by halves either. He’d run from classrooms, meetings, various foster homes and cars. At one point, it was recorded, he’d even leapt from a moving car. It seemed clear that if he wasn’t in a secure area, and constantly watched, it was odds-on that he’d try to escape.

But he always came back. And, to me, that seemed key. Just as a half-hearted suicide attempt was often a cry for help, so this lad seemed not to really want to disappear – which he could do, should he want to – but simply to cause maximum inconvenience and stress for all concerned.

Which, of course, was a cry for help too. I left my vigil at the dining-room window, and went into the kitchen, where I slapped the switch down on the kettle for about the sixth or seventh time. Ridiculous, really, because I could boil it when they arrived. It was just a nervous tic I couldn’t shake. ‘I imagine he probably has,’ I said to Tyler. ‘But you’d have thought they’d have at least phoned me! John knows what I’m like,’ I harrumphed. ‘He should have phoned.’

‘But it’s not John who’s bringing him, love,’ Mike reminded me. ‘It’s the boy’s social worker, isn’t it? John probably doesn’t even know what’s going on, truth be known. It will be Christine taking the lead on this one, won’t it?’

I was just about to say ‘Whatever’ when, as if on cue, my mobile phone rang, showing an unknown number in the display. I snatched it up, mouthing ‘Finally’ at Mike.

‘It’s Libby Moran,’ a female voice said. ‘I’m Miller Green’s social worker?’

She sounded bright enough, but I could tell that the brightness was forced, as if her tone was for the benefit of someone else. ‘I’m just, um, calling to let you know that we should be with you in about half an hour, if that’s okay? Sorry about the delay. Miller was a little bit afraid of another move so quickly, so we had a teeny bit of a job convincing him to get into the car … but it’s all okay now,’ she trilled. ‘We’re finally on the road.’

‘That’s fine,’ I trilled back, imagining I’d be coming through the loudspeaker. ‘We’ll see you when you get here, but please do tell Miller that he has nothing to be afraid of. We’re all really looking forward to meeting him. Oh, and you might want to let him know that we’ve put a TV in his bedroom, and I’ve managed to borrow a PlayStation from my sister for him, too.’

‘Oh, that sounds wonderful,’ she replied, but, as she hung up the call, I was sure I could hear manic laughter.

I kept that to myself, however. Best not to pre-judge. ‘Half an hour,’ I told Mike and Tyler. ‘He was just a bit reluctant, that was all.’

‘I can understand that,’ Tyler said. ‘I mean, he’s bound to be scared, isn’t he? Specially if he’s been on the move all the time. Must be crap for him.’

‘Rubbish.’ I corrected. ‘It must be “rubbish” for him. You’ll have to try to curb your language, Ty – he’s at an impressionable age, remember.’

Though whether we’d be able to make any sort of impression on him was quite another matter. I had my doubts. Miller, it seemed, liked to be the one calling the shots. The half-hour stretched. Then stretched some more. Then became a full hour. It was gone ten past eight by the time the doorbell eventually buzzed, and I wondered what had held them up now.

Though it wasn’t a ‘them’ that was standing on the doorstep. It was just a young, flustered-looking woman – no sign of Miller – with a suitcase in one hand and a bin bag in the other.

‘He’s still in the car,’ she explained, as I peered past her into the street. ‘Won’t get out at the minute – this is a bit of a thing with him, I’m afraid – but I’m sure if we go inside, curiosity will get the better of him, and he’ll come and join us.’

With little choice but to go with her assessment of the situation, I stood aside to let her in and put the door on the latch. She looked to be in her late twenties, and put me in mind of a 1960s hippy; long floral skirt, bright orange oversized jumper and her dyed red hair hung in long dreadlocks. Conventional social worker she wasn’t, at least in appearance. She also had a lip piercing, which surprised me, even in these enlightened times. Though less surprising, I decided, as I ushered her into the living room, would be to find out that under the maxi-skirt she had heavy workmen’s boots.

I wasn’t disappointed. As she took the seat I proffered, and hitched up her dress, I spied a pair of chunky ten-eyelet Dr. Martens. I hoped she was as robust as they looked.

‘Bless him,’ she said, accepting the mug of coffee Mike handed her. ‘He’s such a little monkey. After all he put Jenny and Martin through, you wouldn’t credit it, would you? Decided he was going nowhere. Refused point blank to get into my car. And then of course he ran off and it was ages before we found him. Up a tree as it turned out, watching us all running around looking for him.’

Running rings round them, more like, I thought but didn’t say. There was also the small matter of him still being in the car. He was only twelve, after all, and with a long history of absconding. For all we knew, he could already be halfway down the street.

Mike was on a different tack, however. ‘And, if he refuses, how do you propose we get him back out of your car?’

‘Or more to the point,’ Tyler said, before Libby had a chance to answer, ‘how are you going to get back into your car?’ He’d been keeping watch, out of the window, and now motioned for us to look. ‘Because he’s sitting in the driving seat and, if I’m not mistaken, I think those are your car keys he’s waving?’

Libby Moran’s hands flew into the canvas bag she had across her shoulder. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she groaned, rummaging in it fruitlessly. ‘The little …!’

And the next word was definitely not ‘monkey’.

Chapter 4 (#u6dcccb14-42e2-5a8b-93a4-a0734658d271)

‘How on earth …?’ Libby Moran said, getting up and joining Tyler at the front window. She was still rummaging in her bag, seemingly unable to accept the evidence of her own eyes.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ I said, pulling Tyler away. If it was attention Miller was after, then perhaps best if we didn’t give him any.

‘Did you leave them in the ignition?’ Mike asked, unable to hide his astonishment.

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s a wireless ignition. ‘But I put them in my bag … God, he must have got them out again while I was getting his stuff from the back seat.’ She clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘God, I’m so stupid!’

Miller was still gurning at us, sticking his tongue out and pressing it against the car window, so I suggested we all come away. He clearly wanted us out there so he could taunt us a little further. ‘Why don’t we leave him to it and get started on the paperwork?’

‘Good idea,’ she said, visibly trying to regain a sense of order. She took her seat again. I felt a bit sorry for her.

‘Have you been his social worker for a long time?’ I asked as we joined her.

She pulled out a bunch of papers from the large canvas bag. ‘I’m afraid not.’ She sounded apologetic, as if that was a personal failing. ‘In fact, I don’t know Miller very well at all. His previous social worker left two months ago – she’s gone on maternity leave – and she’d only been with him for a year. I’ve only had two visits since I got assigned to him, to be honest. I don’t think he likes me very much,’ she finished.

Looking at her doleful expression, I wondered if the feeling might be mutual. ‘Well, I imagine he’s gone through social workers as regularly as he’s gone through carers, so I expect he finds it difficult to build up meaningful relationships with any of them. I wouldn’t take it personally,’ I added reassuringly. ‘It just is what it is.’

‘I suppose,’ she said, gesturing towards the paperwork she’d got out. ‘And I’m afraid I’ve not had time to get everything together at such short notice, but what I do have is his last care plan, his last risk assessment and a minuscule paragraph about his education, such as it is. I should be able to pull some more bits together for you over the next few days, but in the meantime I’m afraid what I’ve got on him is all a bit sketchy.’

Plus the small matter of us not actually having the ‘him’ in question inside the house yet. ‘That’s absolutely fine,’ I said. ‘We’ll just take him as we find him. On which note, do you think it might be worth Mike going out to try and entice him in?’

Libby looked at Mike with such hope in her eyes that I wondered what sort of stand-offs they’d already had. Forget forging a ‘relationship’. I suspected she’d yet to even exert basic control. ‘It could be worth a shot,’ she said. ‘Thank you. If you don’t mind, that is.’

‘Of course not,’ Mike said. ‘But let’s give it another five minutes first, eh? I don’t want to antagonise him on his first day with us if I don’t have to. The kid might just decide to join us on his own accord.’

He was probably right. I leaned in to pick up the risk assessment document. ‘Well, we may as well use the time to take a look through some of this,’ I said, scanning the main points.

It was a document that I was very familiar with, though at first glance they can seem very confusing. They are all different, obviously, because every child in care is, but, structurally, they were all pretty much the same: a grid of rows and columns, each of which represents an area of risk that a child might either pose or be exposed to. It covers areas such as risk of absconding, of self-harming, of exploitation and so on. There are many different areas, too, so it can be quite a long list, and for each there is a column that goes on to explain the potential risk, and how it might play out in reality. This is then followed by a third column that explains how the risk is currently being managed – what is being done, and by whom, in order to minimise that risk. Then, finally, there’s a column that is all about suggestions; ideas about what further actions could be taken.

Miller’s risk assessment document was detailed, to say the least, and I noticed immediately that there was something about monitoring his medication, and checking that he actually swallowed his nightly tablets as he apparently had a tendency not to take them. I recognised them too. They were a brand of melatonin. ‘So he’s on medication to help him sleep then?’ I asked Libby.

‘Oops – glad you spotted that,’ she said, delving once again into her capacious bag, and pulling out a plastic bag with a tablet box inside it. ‘Don’t want to land you with another load of problems, do I? Though there’s only a few days’ supply in there, I’m afraid. You’ll need to get in touch with your GP to get some more organised. He takes the maximum adult dose.’ She consulted her notes. ‘Three per night, 7 p.m.’

Before I had the chance to point out that it was already a lot later than that, Tyler, who’d been keeping a discreet eye-out anyway, called us once again to the window.

‘Well, that’s … interesting,’ he said, as we all went to join him. ‘Is it a boy? Is it a T-Rex? You decide …’, he added, laughing.

It appeared to be the latter. Some sort of dinosaur, at any rate. Miller, who was dark-haired, and slighter than I’d expected, was currently striding up and down on the grass outside the window, with his neck craned forward, his shoulders hunched, and his arms close to his chest with his hands bent and hooked to look like claws. ‘What the hell is that about?’ Tyler observed, transfixed.

‘Language!’ I reminded him, trying not to smile myself. It was really quite an impressive impersonation. ‘Perhaps time to go out and rein him in?’ I said to Mike.

‘Literally, by the look of it,’ he said, chuckling and shaking his head. ‘I’ll just go and dig out my patented dinosaur net, shall I?’

Libby, however, looked far from amused. And something else struck me – was she actually afraid of this child? ‘I think you’d better,’ she said. ‘Before he gets even worse. The thing is with Miller is that he’s all about control. Likes to think he’s in charge. Pulling everyone’s strings, you know? Definitely something to bear in mind.’

‘Oh, we will,’ I said, watching him strut back and forth, completely focused on his performance.

Or perhaps she was just embarrassed about having left her car keys in the car, with Miller – clearly a challenging child – still in there. Whatever the reason, she was certainly uncomfortable. ‘Would you like a top-up?’ I asked, nodding towards her empty mug.