Главная страница | Биографии и мемуары | Too Hurt to Stay: The True Story of a Troubled Boy’s Desperate Search for a Loving Home

Too Hurt to Stay: The True Story of a Troubled Boy’s Desperate Search for a Loving Home
Casey Watson


The fourth title from Sunday Times bestselling author Casey Watson.Eight-year-old Spencer takes himself to social services and demands to be taken into care. It’s a desperate act, a cry for help, but his parent’s reaction – good riddance – speaks volumes. Casey’s hackles are immediately up for this poor child.Spencer is the middle child of four siblings. His parents claim all their other kids are ‘normal’ and that Spencer was born ‘vicious and evil’. Casey and her family are disgusted – kids aren’t born evil, they get damaged. Although when vigilante neighbours start to take action and their landlord threatens eviction, Casey is stretched to the limits, trying desperately to hold on to this boy who causes so much pain and destruction.Casey is determined to try and understand what Spencer is going through and help him find the loving home he is so desperately searching for. But it’s only when Spencer’s mother gets in touch with social services for the first time that gradually everything starts to make sense.













Copyright (#uc607c84b-48cb-547b-851d-0adaddac6dea)

This book is a work of non-fiction based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

HarperElement

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)






and HarperElement are trademarks of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

First published by HarperElement 2012

FIRST EDITION

© Casey Watson 2012

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Casey Watson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007436620

Ebook edition © OCTOBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007436637

Version: 2016-10-19


To my wonderful and supportive family


Contents

Cover (#u0e9442ec-f23c-5b72-95ef-5c46fcb60601)

Title Page (#u6fbc90de-cacc-53e9-953a-0e9aa3b5ebbb)

Copyright

Dedication (#u58a48dda-9c23-5a2e-8b23-ff7c04db153c)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Exclusive sample chapter

Acknowledgements

Casey Watson (#ua52944e1-8c99-5b74-beb5-66a4fb45ed54)

About the Publisher (#u309367f6-80ec-57c9-b2a6-99323e74e765)


Chapter 1 (#uc607c84b-48cb-547b-851d-0adaddac6dea)

They always say a change is as good as a rest, don’t they? And let’s face it, who wants to put their feet up and do nothing all day long? Not me.

Which was just as well. It was mid-August, a time of year where rest tends to be high on the agenda, but as I hefted my number one grandson from his car seat, my principal thought was ‘fat chance’.

I didn’t like to admit it, because at forty-three I was young for a granny, but four hours in town with my daughter Riley and her two little ones had exhausted me. Not that I hadn’t asked for it. I’d been itching to spend more time with Levi and Jackson, so I had no business moaning and groaning about it. And besides, I well remembered how tiring it was being a young mum with two little ones to run around after; with Levi almost three now and Jackson just six months old, Riley had her work cut out.

And I remembered how tiring childcare could be better than most grannies, maybe. We’d just said goodbye to our last foster children, and though at ten and seven Ashton and Olivia hadn’t exactly been toddlers, they had certainly been as challenging as little ones. As with all the kids we took, these had been profoundly damaged children, so caring for them had definitely taken its toll.

‘God, I could kill for a coffee,’ I told Riley as we got the kids indoors and settled them in the living room with some toys.

‘You sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll deal with the drinks.’ But almost as soon as I’d lowered myself and the baby into an armchair with a picture book, the phone rang. Levi shot to his feet.

Which meant I had to be quick. He was three now and his most favourite thing at the moment was to chat on the phone. Needless to say, he beat me to it.

‘Hiya!’ he was babbling into the receiver. ‘Hiya! Lub you!’ Then his usual follow-up. ‘Okay, then. Byeee!’

I gently prised the receiver from him, despite his indignant protests, and hoped whoever was on the end hadn’t already hung up. Happily he hadn’t – it was John Fulshaw, our fostering-agency link worker – though he’d been about to. ‘Thought I’d dialled a wrong number,’ he chuckled. ‘Either that or you were doing a bit of moonlighting. Thought you’d wanted a break!’

‘It’s Levi,’ I told him. ‘And this is my break. Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘My, he’s growing up fast,’ John said. Then he cleared his throat. It was a sign I knew of old. A sign that invariably meant that the tone of the conversation was about to change.

‘So?’ I asked.

‘So, talking of breaks,’ he continued, ‘we…ll, I just wondered how adamant you felt on that front?’

‘Go on,’ I said slowly, while pulling a face at Riley. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, listening.

‘Well,’ John said again, obviously limbering up still, ‘we just wondered what the chances were of you taking on another placement. It’s not going to be long term …’

‘Yeah, right. Heard that one before, John.’

‘No, this time I’m sure of it. The plan here is for the child to be returned home to his family as soon as possible.’

Which seemed odd. My husband Mike and I didn’t do mainstream fostering. We were specialist carers, trained to deliver a behaviour-modification programme that was geared to helping the most profoundly damaged kids. These were kids that were too challenging to be fostered in the mainstream, and for whom the alternative was often the grim option of a secure unit. They’d often been through the system – children’s homes and foster homes – already. We were very much the ‘last-chance saloon’ for these unfortunates, our aim being to give them lots of love and firm boundaries, and in so doing improve their behaviour enough for them to be returned, not to their families – that option was mostly long gone – but to mainstream foster carers. That was what had just happened with Ashton and Olivia. So this situation was odd.

‘That sounds unusual,’ I told John.

‘Even more than you know, Casey. This kid – whose name is Spencer, by the way – is only eight, yet he took himself off to social services on his own – just marched into their offices and demanded that they put him into care.’

‘What?’ I said, laughing incredulously. ‘So he goes in there, asks for a foster carer and that’s it? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Well, not exactly. This actually happened a few weeks ago. And was taken seriously, too. There was a suspicious-looking bruise on his wrist, which he wasn’t really able to account for – and neither was the father. Seems there’s some sort of question mark in that regard about the mum. Anyway, naturally, it’s all been followed up. Social services, family support and so on. They’ve been trying to support the family, offering coping strategies and advice, but none of it appears to have worked so far. There are five children in the family, little Spencer being the third of them, and there don’t seem to be any issues or problems with the others. Mum’s being treated for depression, apparently, but, bar this one child, the family are coping. Just not with Spencer. So that’s where we are now.’

‘Can’t cope with him? Why ever not? You say he’s eight, yes?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So what could an eight-year-old have possibly done that’s so bad?’

‘Not that much, from what I can see, except that they’ve described him as almost feral. Had a yearning for the streets from a very young age. Running away all the time, even spending whole nights missing, and the parents say they simply don’t know what to do with him any more. So now it’s turned on its head, really. It’s them who are pressing, because they don’t feel confident they can keep him safe any more.’

‘Bloody hell, John. That sounds crazy. That young and they can’t keep control of him?’

‘That’s the story. And from what social services tell me, that really is the case. The other kids all appear absolutely fine.’

‘So has he got mental-health problems? Psychological problems? What?’

‘I’m told not. The parents apparently told social services that they are at a loss themselves. They described him as vicious and abnormal, and claim he was born evil.’

I balked at that. Honestly! Some people. Children weren’t born evil. I truly believed that. They got damaged by environment, circumstances, neglect. It was that which caused behaviour to spiral out of control. Not some ‘evil’ gene. I’d yet to meet a child who was ‘born bad’. I suspected I never would, either.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘And just when did you have in mind for this “evil” child to come to us?’

‘Well, obviously, you’ll want to speak to Mike first,’ John answered. ‘But if you’re both in agreement, we could bring him over to meet you next Monday, with a view to him moving in that same week.’

Ah, I thought. Mike. Then I tried not to think it, as the last words my husband had said to me that morning were how much he was looking forward to a few weeks of peace. Just the two of us. A proper recharge of our batteries, after what by anyone’s yardstick had been a rollercoaster of a year. ‘And tonight,’ he’d said, ‘don’t do a thing about dinner. I’m ordering in a takeaway, a nice bottle of your favourite wine, a few candles …’

Oh dear, I thought. Oh dear.

John went on to explain that Spencer was currently staying with another specialist carer temporarily. Her name was Annie and I knew her vaguely. She was in her mid-fifties, and I seemed to remember hearing on the grapevine that she’d recently lost her husband, poor thing. Because of this, and the fact that she was considering retirement soon anyway, she had asked to be considered only as a respite carer now; just stepping in when full-time foster carers needed a few days’ break. Which was why, John finished, it was important they move Spencer on quickly. I could almost hear him crossing his fingers.

‘Hmm,’ said Riley once I’d put down the phone, having promised John I’d get back to him the following morning. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when Dad gets home, for sure. What happened to the plan to take the rest of the summer off? Flown out of the window now, has it?’

I bustled us both back into the kitchen and winked at her as I took my coffee. ‘Oh, you know me,’ I said. ‘Dad can always be persuaded …’

‘Well, rather you than me,’ she said. ‘And Dad’s right, Mum. With a job like this I think you should have a bit of a break before the next shock –’

‘Shock? Honestly, Riley you make it sound so dramatic. They’re only kids, you know, not little savages!’

Riley didn’t need to answer, because even as I said it I was reminded that when Ashton and Olivia had arrived with us, little savages were exactly what they looked like. Literally. More as if they’d strolled out of a prehistoric cave – all rags and lice and scabies – than from a council house an hour and a half’s drive away.

But if I spent the rest of the day optimistically planning my strategy to break the news to him gently, I was soon to be reminded that it was going to be a tough one. It had been a glorious afternoon, most of which we’d spent out in the garden, and when David, Riley’s partner, arrived to pick the family up, almost the first words she said to him were, ‘You’ll never guess what. Big, big news! Mum’s only agreed to take on a new kid, like, next week. And without asking Dad.’

As with Riley’s earlier, David’s expression said it all. ‘No, I haven’t!’ I protested. ‘I haven’t agreed to anything.’

Riley grinned and touched a finger to her temple. ‘Yeah, you have,’ she said, laughing. ‘So good luck.’

Back inside and tidying the toys away, I smiled to myself. Riley knew me too well. Knew how much I’d want to do this. It was exactly the sort of challenge I loved. Just eight years old and already branded so horribly. It almost beggared belief, and I wanted to know more. I tidied the toys away, washed up the few plates and cups we’d used, then swept the floor and wiped down all the kitchen surfaces. I loved to clean. So much so that in my past life I think I must have been a scullery maid, but even with my exacting standards of housewifery the fact was that it wasn’t six yet and I had nothing left to do. I couldn’t even busy myself by making a start on dinner, because Mike was going to order in that takeaway. See, I told myself, that’s why I don’t want a break. I’m bored. I have nothing to do all day now that the kids have left home. What else can I do if I don’t have kids in?

This was key. As a specialist carer, one of the conditions of my employment was that I didn’t take any other job. I was required to be on call 24/7, as most of the kids we got in were so challenging, and needed such a lot of one-to-one support. Which was what I loved. Prior to fostering I’d been a behaviour manager in a large comprehensive school, looking after all the difficult and troubled kids. And it had been the idea of this demanding one-on-one role that had inspired me to do our kind of fostering in the first place.

See, I told myself again, popping out to the conservatory for a cigarette. I needed to have kids in. Without that challenge I just felt so redundant.

Having convinced myself that Mike would understand, I went back inside, grabbed the book I’d bought in town and started half-heartedly reading the first few pages. But I was barely taking in the words and was happy to fling it on the sofa as soon as I heard the sound of Mike’s car.

‘Hi, babes – how was your day?’ I gushed, planting a kiss on his cheek as he walked into the hall. He was carrying the promised wine in one hand, and a big bunch of red roses – my favourite – in the other. ‘Oh!’ I cried, feeling even more guilty than ever. ‘They’re gorgeous. What an unexpected pleasure! Come on, let me put the kettle on and make you a nice mug of coffee.’

‘Casey,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘What have you done? Have you been out buying handbags? Come on. Own up.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, love,’ I trilled. ‘You’re so suspicious. Can’t I even be nice to you without you thinking there’s an ulterior motive?’

His expression remained the same. ‘Er … no. Not this nice.’

I flicked on the kettle and pulled a vase from the cupboard. ‘Honestly,’ I said, feigning great offence. ‘That’s so not fair. Though … um … I do have something I need to ask you.’

I had hoped this might sound like something of an unrelated afterthought, but my husband, who knew me as well as my kids did, was not fooled in the least.

‘Here we go,’ he said, plonking himself down at the kitchen table while I fussed about unwrapping the flowers and trying not to blush. ‘Go on, then,’ he finished. ‘Let’s have it.’

So I told him pretty much everything John had told me, gently skimming over the ‘born evil’ section, and making a great deal of the ‘oh, I’m soooo bored’ part.

Then I held my breath, waiting for the verdict. Which wasn’t quite as immediately understanding as I’d hoped.

‘Oh, Casey, please love. Not yet,’ Mike said, with genuine feeling. ‘It’s only been two bloody minutes since the dog left home, let alone the last two kids. Can’t we have a bit of a breather? Isn’t there someone else who could take this on?’

I knew he had a point. It really had only felt like two minutes. And though I missed Bob – he was our son Kieron’s dog, and had now gone to live with him and his girlfriend Lauren, at her parents – I knew the point that Mike was making was that for the first time in over two decades we had no one and nothing to worry about bar ourselves. There were the grandchildren, of course, but in terms of our home life … well, it was a first, and I could see what he was saying.

But I was on a mission and there was no way I was going to give up so easily. I had the bit between my teeth now. This child needed me. And having no one to worry about, to my mind, was overrated. Mike had his job as a warehouse manager, which involved some long hours, I understood that – but what was I supposed to do? I tried tugging, very gently, on his heart strings.

‘So you’re saying no?’ I asked, sorrowfully. ‘Is that it? I have to tell John they’ll have to just dump him in a children’s home?’

‘That’s not fair, Case,’ he said levelly. ‘And don’t use words like “dump” on me, either. You know who I’m thinking about here. You. I’ll be at work,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s you that’ll have to cope. And I seem to remember it wasn’t too long ago that you were telling me just how much you were looking forward to being able to have a great deal more quality time with your own grandchildren.’

‘I know,’ I said, stabbing the stems into the vase distractedly. ‘But I can do both. It’s just one little boy, Mike. And I’m so bored. I really am –’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘Well, I soon will be, anyway. You know that. I can’t rattle around here with nothing to do. I’ll go stir crazy …’

‘And what about our holiday? I thought we were going to have a few days away?’

‘We still can. There’s respite, don’t forget.’ I put down the stem I was holding, and crossed the kitchen. I put the wine bottle in the fridge – it would need chilling, after all – then I went back to the table and sat on his knee. With me at five foot nothing and Mike at six foot three, it was one of the few ways I could look him in the eye, on his level. ‘Will you just think about it?’ I asked him. ‘Please? Anyway, we don’t need a holiday. Look out of the window. It’s just gorgeous. We can sunbathe in the garden. Pretty please?’

His eyes narrowed again, but I could see it was a different kind of narrowing. One that said ‘here we go’ as opposed to ‘no, you don’t’.

‘You’re not going to let this drop,’ he said. ‘Are you?’

‘What do you think?’ I answered.

Job done.

In the end we had a Mexican, drank the whole bottle of wine and watched an old favourite movie of ours, American Werewolf in London. ‘Well, you did say this lad’s a bit feral,’ Mike quipped. ‘So we can look upon this as a bit of prior research.’

Thematically, though, perhaps it should have been Apocalypse Now, for it signalled the end of our ‘peace and quiet’ time, for sure. But I didn’t mind. I went to bed that night feeling a very happy bunny. I couldn’t wait to see what Monday had in store.


Chapter 2 (#uc607c84b-48cb-547b-851d-0adaddac6dea)

I decided I would spend the rest of the weekend trying to be extra nice to Mike, as a thank you. Now he’d agreed we could take Spencer – provided the meeting went well, at any rate – I was fizzing with energy and excitement.

‘Morning, love!’ I trilled brightly, as I perched on the edge of the bed, bearing a tray groaning under the weight of a full English breakfast.

Mike stretched and eyed the tray of food suspiciously. I’d let him have a sleep in while I’d sneaked downstairs to cook it, and had been surprised that the smell of bacon frying hadn’t already woken him.

‘I’ve already agreed we can meet Spencer,’ he said. ‘So what is it –’ he met my eye – ‘that you’re after now?’

‘Honestly,’ I said, crossing the room to fling open the curtains and let in the sunshine. ‘I’m just being nice, okay, grumpy drawers! Look, I’ve made all your favourite things for you, as well. Even those fancy sausages with bits in that you like.’

He nodded. ‘I can see that. So, go on, what are you after?’

I grinned. ‘Well, I was thinking, since it’s such a lovely day, that we should, I don’t know, go out somewhere, maybe.’

‘As in where?’ he said, picking up his cutlery and tucking in.

‘Oh, I don’t mind. Anywhere you like, love,’ I answered. ‘Just a day trip. You know me. As long as there are some shops, I don’t mind.’

‘Ah,’ he said, spearing a piece of sausage and waggling it, ‘what you really mean, then, is that you’d like me to take you shopping to buy stuff for a kid that we haven’t even met yet. Am I right?’

‘Well …’

Mike laughed. ‘Honestly, love,’ he said, ‘never become a con-woman. Subterfuge is not one of your finer attributes.’

So I was busted. But I didn’t care, because for all his sarky comments Mike was happy enough with my plan. So we drove to a pretty village about 20 miles away, had a walk and a lovely pub lunch, then hit the gorgeous little high street, which was full of two of my favourite things, charity shops and toy shops. So while Mike, bless him, trudged uncomplainingly behind me, I was able to pick up bargains galore.

At eight, Spencer was only a little younger than Ashton, our last boy, so I worked on the basis that he would probably enjoy similar things. I bought a pile of books, some Lego, new jigsaws and a few puzzles, as well as restocking the box of craft items I liked to keep in the house. And though he raised his eyebrows on more than one occasion, Mike refrained from passing judgement on my probably over-the-top haul.

And to my delight, the rest of the family indulged me as well. On the Sunday (so much for living the quiet life once your kids leave …) we had the whole family over for a big roast. Kieron and Lauren, Riley and David, plus my two gorgeous grandsons, all of whom seemed happy to accept the reality that I was always at my happiest when I had a child to look after, however much of a challenge that child might turn out to be.

‘Mind you,’ commented Kieron as we sat down at the table, ‘have you noticed how differently she does it these days, sis? You remember how she was when I pinched that lolly when I was little? How she dragged me back to the shop and made me give it back and apologise in front of everyone? And then I got grounded as well?’

‘Quite right, too!’ I chipped in.

‘Yeah, Mum …’ He lifted a finger to forestall me. ‘But imagine if one of these foster kids did that. Oh no, it would be all, “Oh, dear me, that’s not acceptable behaviour. I’m afraid you lose ten points today, dear.”’

Riley snorted. ‘So this is since Mum became Scottish, then, is it?’

I laughed too. Whenever Kieron did a ‘Mum’ impersonation, for some reason he always made me sound just like Miss Jean Brodie, adopting this bizarre, high-pitched, Scottish twang. ‘Hey, you two, don’t mock, okay?’ I retorted through my giggles. ‘I have to do that. It’s called guidelines, and I have to follow them. It’s not the same as with your own kids.’

We were all falling about laughing, but this, in fact, was true. Where I’d come down like a ton of bricks with my own two when they were little – that was what parenting was all about, wasn’t it? – it was different with children who had profound behaviour issues, and who were way past the point where being marched round to apologise to someone would be of any benefit at all. Indeed, for some kids it would be counter-productive. These kids needed a whole different approach if they were to make progress. And a structured one, of the kind we’d been trained to deliver. The children would indeed earn points for good behaviour, and once they’d earned them they could then spend them on privileges. It was all about modifying their behaviour to make it acceptable, and in such a way that they could see the benefit in this. If they did as they were asked they would enjoy a nicer life. It really was as simple a lesson to learn as that. And when delivered within an environment that was warm and supportive, the programme was so far proving to be a great success.

And that was what it sounded like this little boy needed, I mused, as, before going to bed that night, I popped in to open Spencer’s bedroom window and fluff up the pillows on the bed I had already made up. Love and boundaries. We could certainly give him that while we had him. Though I’d obviously have to watch out for that comedy Scottish accent.

* * *

For all my excitement, I was still nervous when I woke up on Monday morning. Didn’t matter how much I looked forward to getting these foster kids, there was always that anxiety about the first meeting with them because you never knew what to expect. The child could absolutely hate you from the start, or you’d click; you’d make a connection at that point or you wouldn’t. Not that I worried unduly. Spencer was our fifth child now, so the one thing I did know was that I didn’t find it difficult to put feelings aside. As a foster carer your job was to put differences aside, to care for the children you took on regardless of how they were towards you, and get on with the job at hand. Luckily, so far, though it had been rocky in places, I’d formed a strong attachment with the previous children we’d looked after. I hoped today was to be no exception.

Mike was also a little bit nervous. I could tell. He’d taken the morning off so we could meet Spencer together, and my plan was to be that after a quick slice of toast we’d give the house a once-over before our visitors arrived. But he was having none of it. ‘For goodness sake, Case!’ he snapped. ‘The whole house is bloody spotless. Can you put down the Mr Sheen and just chill till they get here? Polishing the grain off the bloody banisters won’t make them get here any sooner.’

I knew better than to argue at such a sensitive time, so I reluctantly put my duster away. And they were on the doorstep not half an hour later anyway. It was what I’d come to expect as the usual posse. I ushered them all into the dining room for the meeting, and John Fulshaw, our link worker, made the introductions. There was Glenn Gallagher, Spencer’s social worker, and his temporary carer, Annie, and last but not least there was Spencer himself, half hidden by his carer and looking terrified.

‘Hello sweetie,’ I said to him, proffering my widest smile. ‘Goodness, you’re a big boy for eight.’ Despite his nervousness, I could immediately see that this went down well – being called ‘big’, in my experience, always did with boys of his age. He looked sweet, too. A poppet. Not at all what I’d imagined, with a silky mop of toffee-coloured hair and eyes that went with it. Amber and melting, heavily lashed and wide. But as well as being cute he also looked fit. A solid lad, who looked a little bit older than his years. Well nourished and, at least superficially, well cared for.

‘Hi, Mrs Watson,’ he answered shyly.

‘Oh, call me Casey,’ I told him. I pointed. ‘And this is Mike, okay?’ I could see as they shook hands that Mike’s first impression was the same as mine. That, like me, he had warmed to this sweet little boy. And he was polite too, carefully pulling a chair out for his carer, Annie, and waiting to be asked before sitting down himself. And when I poured tea and coffee and offered him milk and biscuits, he immediately asked her permission. ‘Would that be okay?’ he asked. A good sign.

‘Of course, love,’ she said. ‘And then after you’ve had them, perhaps Mike could take you on a tour of the house, eh?’

So far, I thought, so not at all what I’d expected. Where on earth was this evil, feral child we’d been expecting? In fact, the start of the meeting went so well and so chattily that it began to seem surreal that this child was in care. There was lots of laughter too, as Glenn went through a few of Spencer’s likes and dislikes, even joshing with him: ‘Oh, and by the way, Spencer particularly loves sprouts. Don’t you, mate?’ Spencer wrinkled up his nose in disgust.

‘So,’ said John, finally. ‘How about that tour, then? Okay, Mike?’

‘Absolutely,’ Mike agreed, rising from the table. ‘C’mon, lad,’ he said to Spencer. ‘Let me show you and Glenn around.’

But perhaps I should have sensed something. Because it was only a matter of seconds before the atmosphere changed completely, Annie turning in her seat to speak to John directly. ‘Now then,’ she said, looking agitated. ‘You do know that I need to know today, don’t you?’ It took me a second to work out what she was talking about. But it soon became clear. ‘That was the deal, you remember? If they don’t want him –’ she had the grace to glance in my direction as she said this – ‘then you do understand I’m not prepared to wait for you to find someone else, don’t you?’

I was shocked. And so, I think, was John. We all knew Spencer’s placement with Annie was only temporary, but she seemed almost aggressive about demanding to be shot of him. ‘Annie, you know today’s only an introductory meeting,’ John said levelly. ‘And I certainly never promised you an answer today. Casey and Mike have only agreed to consider it.’

Annie heaved a decidedly heavy sigh. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said, addressing me now, ‘I know I shouldn’t be pushing, but I really can’t cope with kids like this any more. Years ago, then fine. But these days I’m on my own, and sadly …’ She finished then, punctuating her words with a resigned shrug.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to seem presumptuous, but, well, he seems okay to me. I mean he’s obviously on his best behaviour, but the real child always …’

‘Oh, don’t let his “little angel” act fool you!’ she answered, her tone sharp. ‘This kid, believe me, is one of a kind. He’s like no kid I have ever met before in my life. No, honestly,’ she added, obviously seeing my sceptical expression, ‘I can’t begin to try and describe what I mean, but there’s definitely something not right about him, trust me.’

This brought me slightly up short. I’d had as much said to me before. About Justin, the first boy we’d ever fostered. And we’d done well to heed the warning. Though everything worked out in the end, we’d certainly been through the mill with him. But if that was the case with Spencer, so be it. Annie didn’t know it, of course, but her words made no difference. I’d decided to take him the minute I saw him. And I was 99 per cent sure Mike felt the same. Even so, it was good – and I braced myself mentally – to have some insight that was not at first apparent.

The others came back then, and we rounded off the meeting by gathering a little more logistical info. We were told Spencer’s likes and dislikes, and that he attended a special school that was geared to children who had difficulties in the ‘mainstream’. I knew what this meant, from the years I’d spent in education myself. It was flowery language to describe an institution for the sort of kids who’d been kicked out of regular schools, and probably more than one, too. I glanced at John. We didn’t comment. We didn’t need to.

But even with that knowledge on board, I just couldn’t believe that inside this child lurked a little monster. Once again, as he left, he was unfailingly polite, thanking us both for having him and saying how nice it was to meet us. ‘An’ I really hope you decide to let me live here,’ he finished, ‘cos I love that bedroom and your enormous big telly.’

‘He seems fine,’ whispered Mike as we stood on the doorstep and waved the car off.

‘I know,’ I whispered back. ‘He’s just so cute. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘You even need to ask me?’

So we didn’t make Annie wait. We called John back the same afternoon. We’d happily take him off her hands the following Monday.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/casey-watson/too-hurt-to-stay-the-true-story-of-a-troubled-boy-s-desperate/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.