‘Na.’
‘I’ll get you something.’
I stayed on the sofa, trying to steady the room. There was still a faint smell of smoke from where the blanket had caught fire on Mum’s bed the night before. A few minutes later Mum returned with a mug of hot chocolate and a packet of biscuits. ‘Thanks,’ I said, taking a gulp. It tasted good. Mum makes the best hot chocolate: she puts in extra milk and sugar. She sat next to me on the sofa while I sipped the hot chocolate and ate the biscuits. I began to feel a bit better.
‘Does your foster carer know you’re here?’ Mum asked, rubbing her hand across her forehead.
‘No. And I’m not going back.’
Mum didn’t say anything and I was hurt. I wanted her to say, ‘Of course you’re not going back, son. You’re staying here with me. Over my dead body will they take you away again!’ But she didn’t. She took a crumpled tissue from the sleeve of her jumper and blew her nose; then she stared at the floor.
‘Mum,’ I said, turning to look at her. ‘Did you hear me? I’m not going back.’
She looked up at me, and her brow furrowed. ‘You have to, son. They’ll come and get you if you don’t. It’s for the best.’
‘For the best! What are you talking about?’ I heard my voice rise and I was starting to feel hot like I do when I get angry. ‘How can you say that? I’m your son. This is my home. And what were you doing sending my clothes and keeping my mobile?’
She began to cry louder, racking sobs that made her body shake. I felt sorry for her but, at the same time, I felt more sorry for me; I was the one being chucked out of my home, not her. ‘They said if I did what they wanted,’ she said between sobs, ‘you and Tommy could go into care under a Section 20, so I would still have parental rights. They said if I didn’t cooperate they would get a full care order from the court and I’d lose all say in your care. The social would become your legal parents. So I signed the forms and packed your clothes like they told me. Duffy said it wasn’t a good idea for you to have your mobile, so I left it on the bed.’
Although Mum was obviously upset, what she said sounded all too easy to me – cooperating with social services and signing me over. I was her son, not some parcel being delivered to the door. What I wanted to hear was her fighting for me, yelling at the social that she’d never let her kids go into care, then chucking the social workers out of the house. But of course Mum couldn’t do that: she takes the easy way out – usually from the bottle. I was getting hotter and angrier.
Mum turned towards me, her cheeks stained with tears, and went to put her arms around me. I saw the empty bottle on the floor beside her, the stains on her clothes and the hopelessness in her face, and my anger grew.
‘It’s your fault!’ I yelled. ‘Your fault we’re in this mess. Look at the state you’re in! No wonder my dad didn’t stick around . . .’
‘Your dad?’ she yelled back in disbelief. ‘Your dad? Whatever has he done for you?’
‘At least he hasn’t messed up like you. You’re a fucking disgrace. They gave you a chance to get off the booze, but you couldn’t! You put that bloody bottle before your kids. You don’t deserve us!’ Before I could stop myself I’d kicked the bottle and it crashed against the wall. I turned and was about to kick the sofa when a loud knock sounded on the front door. I froze.
I stared at Mum and she stared back. She looked like a hunted animal – trapped and frightened. ‘Who can that be at this time?’ she whispered. The knock came again, louder and more insistent.
I stepped from the living room, into the short hall, with Mum by my side. Framed in the glass of the front door was the unmistakeable outline of the Old Bill. ‘Shit, it’s the police,’ I hissed. ‘Libby must have found I’d gone.’ I turned and headed for the back door. Opening it, I stepped out, straight into the arms of another copper.
Chapter Six
‘How did you know I was here?’ I challenged the copper as he herded me back inside.
‘Your foster carer reported you missing. It’s not rocket science. Most kids who run away from foster care go straight home.’ He and the other copper were in the living room now, and I saw them look at the bottle and the state of the room, then exchange a pointed glance. I knew what they were thinking: little wonder the kid’s in care!
‘I’m Chris,’ the other copper said, trying to be friendly, ‘and that’s Gary.’ Gary, who’d caught me out the back, nodded. ‘I’ve seen you and your brother before on the estate,’ Chris continued. Now he’d mentioned it he did look familiar, but we get so many coppers on the estate I wouldn’t have recognised him. ‘Your brother’s Tommy, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Do you know where he is?’ I asked. ‘They separated us and I’m gonna find him and bring him home.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Mum put in.
‘Who says?’ I snapped back. ‘You watch me!’
‘OK, OK,’ Chris said, raising his voice to silence me. ‘Let’s not get into another argument.’
I glanced at Mum. She looked so small and fragile beside the two big, strong, smart coppers, and in the mess that was her house, I almost felt sorry for her again.
‘Sit down, both of you,’ Chris said. ‘I’ll phone control and find out what they want me to do now you’ve been found.’
Mum and I sat on the sofa. Chris pressed a button on the phone clipped to the front of his jacket and made contact with the police operator. I watched him as he told control I’d been found at my mother’s and to advise the duty social worker they would wait with me until I was collected.
‘I’m not going back,’ I said, making a move to stand.
‘Sit down,’ Chris said, then into the phone: ‘Tell the duty social worker the kid says he’s not going back to his foster carer.’
‘Will do,’ the female voice on the other end said, and gave a little laugh. I didn’t see anything funny.
Chris finished the call and turned down the volume on his phone; distorted voices crackled in the background. Chris and Gary glanced around the room; then stood a little way in front of us, trying to make polite conversation as they waited for the return phone call.
‘You all right?’ Gary asked Mum after a moment.
‘I think I’ll get a drink of water,’ she said, heaving herself off the sofa. I guessed she was dehydrated from all the booze.
Gary went with her to the kitchen; perhaps he thought she was going to get something stronger than water, which was very possible. Mum always keeps extra supplies of booze in the kitchen for when she’s worried and ‘needs’ a drink. She was obviously very worried now and the effects of the bottle she’d already drunk would be wearing off.
I’ve lived with Mum’s drinking for so long – all my life – so I know the signs and stages. I know when she needs a drink, how much she’s had and when she’s going to be sick or pass out. I’ve cleared up more puke than I care to remember and made sure she’s propped on her side at night so that she doesn’t choke in her own vomit. I’m ashamed to say I’ve even bought booze for her sometimes when she’s had the shakes so bad she can’t get out of bed and begged me to.
‘What team do you support?’ Chris asked me, as Gary returned with Mum, who was trying hard not to slop the glass of water in her trembling hands.
I shrugged. ‘Arsenal, I guess.’
‘Good team,’ Chris said.
‘Na, Tottenham is the one,’ Gary said. ‘They’ll give your lot a right thrashing next month.’
I shrugged again. I really didn’t care who won or lost the match. I knew they were only trying to be friendly, and make conversation to put me at ease, and usually I’m OK talking about football, but not now. Now I couldn’t have cared a stuff about football. I just wanted them out of here and Tommy home.
Shortly Chris answered his phone and the voice of the woman at police control crackled through: ‘I’ve got the duty social worker on hold,’ she said. ‘He says the kid has to go back to the foster carer, and he can’t collect him because he’s on an emerge
ncy call. Can you take him there?’
‘I’m not going,’ I said, loudly.
The operator must have heard, for she laughed again. ‘Shall I put the duty social worker on?’ she asked.
‘Yes, put him through,’ Chris said.
A few more crackles and we heard the duty social worker say, ‘Hello?’
‘We’re at Ryan’s house now,’ Chris said, looking at me as he spoke. ‘He says he doesn’t want to return to the foster carer.’
‘Ask him why,’ the duty social worker said.
Now, I could have told the truth and said: ‘It’s not my home and I want to be here with Mum and Tommy.’ But I knew that wasn’t good enough. Any kid in care would rather be at home, no matter how bad home is, rather than with a foster carer. I also knew how politically correct social workers are, especially when it comes to race.
Tommy is a bit darker than me – I guess one of his distant relatives was black. When Duffy visited us she often asked what Mum was doing to meet Tommy’s cultural needs. I mean, I ask you! What crap! Tommy was just Tommy, my little brother and Mum’s second ‘taken advantage of’. He didn’t care about his ‘cultural needs’. We were more concerned with getting enough to eat. But now I wondered if I could turn their crap and use it to my advantage.
‘I don’t feel I fit in at Libby’s,’ I said, looking all forlorn. ‘I don’t match her. I feel right out of place there.’
Chris repeated this to the duty social worker. There was silence. Game to me, I thought. ‘Ask him if he will go there tonight,’ the duty social worker said, ‘and we’ll sort out a new placement tomorrow.’
I shook my head sadly. ‘I’d rather not. It don’t feel right. I can stay here for tonight.’
The duty social worker said something which I didn’t catch but must have been no. Chris shook his head, and then said into the phone: ‘Will do,’ before turning down the volume again. ‘He’s going to call back when he’s found you another carer,’ Chris said to me. ‘What was the matter with your other carer, then?’
‘Nothing,’ I shrugged, which was true – I just didn’t want to be in care. I looked at Mum and hoped she was feeling bad, but she didn’t look at me. She was staring straight ahead and avoiding eye contact. Chris and Gary started chatting again, this time about the weather and the snow that was forecast.
Suddenly I remembered my phone. I wouldn’t be leaving without that again!
‘Can I get a few things from my bedroom?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ Chris said, and nodded to Gary.
Gary came with me while Chris stayed in the living room with Mum. I saw the look of horror on Gary’s face as we entered my bedroom. The room was as Tommy and me had left it, no worse, but now I saw it for what it was – a stinking tip. We didn’t have a wardrobe or drawers, so our things were all over the floor in heaps and falling out of broken cardboard boxes which acted as storage. The room was littered with empty crisp packets, biscuit wrappers, fizzy drink bottles and the remains of takeaways – mainly pizza, and the room stank of piss. Tommy wets the bed – he can’t help it – and I now realised I should have changed his sheets more often, but we didn’t always have the money to go to the laundrette. I’d never really thought what a pit our bedroom was – lots of kids on the estate live like this – but now I felt embarrassed Gary had seen it. I bet his bedroom wasn’t like this; I bet it was like the one at Libby’s – clean and tidy.
Stepping over the piles of rubbish, I went to the bunk beds and climbed on to the only rung that wasn’t broken. Reaching up to the top bunk, I found my phone and tucked it into my pocket. I glanced around. There was nothing else I wanted; Mum had packed the only clothes that were decent enough to wear and they were in the suitcase at Libby’s.
‘Anything else?’ Gary asked kindly, touching my shoulder. I guess he felt sorry for me.
I shook my head, and we went back into the living room. I sat on the sofa while Gary stood a little way from Chris again. Mum was sipping the water and still not looking at me. A few minutes later Chris answered his phone and police control put the duty social worker through. I heard the duty social worker say he’d found me an emergency placement, and then ask the coppers to take me there.
‘Where is it?’ Chris asked. I couldn’t hear the duty social worker’s reply. Then Chris said: ‘OK, we’re on our way.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I said.
Chris turned down the volume on his phone and looked at me. I could tell he thought this was going to be difficult, and he was right. ‘Say goodbye to your mum, Ryan,’ Chris said, then, trying to joke and make it easier: ‘You’re going for a ride in a police car.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I said.
‘Yes, you are,’ Mum said, still not looking at me.
‘No, I’m not,’ I said, more forcefully.
Chris and Gary looked at me while Mum continued staring straight ahead, unable to meet my eyes. I was starting to feel a bit hot and twitchy now, like I do when I get angry. Don’t lose it, I told myself; calm down. I tried to take a deep breath and count to ten like my English teacher had told me.
‘I think we should go now,’ Chris said, taking a step towards me. ‘I’m sure your new foster carer is lovely.’
‘Yes,’ Mum said quietly. ‘Go with them. It’s for the best. She will look after you.’
‘What?’ I cried, rounding on her. ‘Why should a foster carer look after me? You’re my mother. You had Tommy and me. You should look after us, not some bloody foster carer!’ I was feeling very hot now; I could feel the heat rising up my spine, making me all hot and twitchy. Calm down, Ryan, I told myself, for fuck’s sake calm down or they’ll arrest you.
I was still staring at Mum, fuming and blaming her. At that point I hated her so much I could have slapped her face like I had Duffy’s. Then very slowly, with Chris and Gary watching, she turned and finally looked at me. Her face was grey, the lines around her mouth were deep, her brow was knitted in pain and her eyes filled with tears.
‘Ryan,’ she said quietly, resting her hand on my arm. ‘Ryan, love, I know I should be able to look after you. Believe me, I know. I know I’ve failed you and Tommy dreadfully and I’m so, so sorry. You are my sons and that will never change. I love you and Tommy so much, but I can’t look after you. Look at the state I’m in. It’s not fair on you or Tommy. Please go quietly to your foster carer, and I will try to get better; then they might let me have you back. Go, love; go with them now. Don’t get yourself into trouble. And try not to hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you, Mum,’ I cried, throwing my arms around her and holding her tight. ‘I love you. I want to stay and help you.’ I felt her body jerk as she began to sob and my own tears fell. Chris and Gary stood somewhere behind us and were very quiet as I tried to soothe and comfort Mum. ‘Please don’t cry,’ I said. ‘I’ll go quietly if that’s what you want. Please don’t upset yourself. I can’t leave here with you crying.’ I wanted to reassure her and tell her everything would be all right, that I’d make sure of it, but of course that wasn’t so. I couldn’t help her, Tommy or me, any longer. I had no say in what was happening to any of us.
‘Come on, then, lad,’ I heard Chris say behind me.
Mum pulled away. I looked into her tear-stained face one last time. ‘Go on, son, be brave,’ she said. ‘Be that boy a father would be proud of.’
That was it. I couldn’t bear her hurt any longer. I walked quickly towards the front door. Chris and Gary followed in silence behind me. As we left the house Mum let out the most dreadful cry. It was the worst sound I’ve ever heard. It was the agonising cry of a mother having her child taken away.
Chapter Seven
Policeman Gary closed the front door behind us. The other copper, Chris, unlocked their patrol car, which was parked in the kerb right outside our house. The interior light went on.
‘You all right?’ Gary asked me gently, placing his hand lightly on my shoulder.
I sniffed and wiped the back of my hand over my ey
es. Of course I wasn’t all right. How I could be? There was no point in telling Gary that; it wouldn’t have done any good. Tommy was with strangers and Mum was alone, sobbing like she would die. I knew, despite what she’d said about trying to get off the drink, as soon as we’d gone she’d open another bottle – to drown her sorrows. She hadn’t managed to get off the drink with Tommy and me there, so there was crap chance of her doing so now we’d been taken away.
It was nearly 1.00 a.m. and the February night air was freezing. I still only had on my old school jacket; I didn’t own a coat. Chris was climbing into the driver’s seat while Gary was holding open the rear door for me to get in. I glanced back at the house. I knew once I was in the car there’d be no chance of escape until I got to the new foster carer’s, and then it might not be so easy this time. I needed to do something and quickly.
‘You OK?’ Gary asked again, holding the door open and waiting for me to get in.
I hesitated. ‘I need a piss,’ I said.
‘OK. Hold up,’ Gary called to Chris. ‘Ryan needs a pee.’ Then to me: ‘Where are you going to go?’
‘Here,’ I said.
I moved away from the car, towards the house, and began fiddling with my flies. ‘Don’t look,’ I told him, as though I was going to pee up the wall of my house. As soon as he turned his back, I legged it. I ran like the clappers down the short path to the end of our terrace, then left into the alleyway.
‘Hey! Stop!’ I heard him shout behind me, but I was already round the corner and going down the next alley.
I ran flat out, like the devil was after me, and perhaps he was. I could hear two sets of footsteps thundering after me down the back alleys of the estate and echoing in the silence of the night. ‘Stop! Police!’ Chris shouted, but of course I didn’t and there was no one around to hear him and intercept me.
Panting and with my face smarting from the cold, I turned right, then left, weaving in and out of the alleys like they were a maze. I knew these alleys well, much better than Chris and Gary – I’d spent my childhood playing in them. I also knew where the hiding places were, and that there was one a little further up. I made another right and left turn. Then, out of breath, I nipped into the covered recess at the end of Chestnut Close where the bins are kept. Going behind the bins, I squatted in the corner with my chin pressing onto my knees. I kept very still and tried to catch my breath.