Nicholas Dane

  ‘I’m his Uncle Michael, innit?’ said Michael, and he grinned. Tony Creal noticed how he had a couple of teeth missing to the side, one above, one below. Drugs, he thought. He’d read somewhere that they were bad for the teeth and gums.

  ‘To tell you the truth, though,’ he went on, ‘I’m not sure how well Nick would adapt to boarding school - unless you can find a very special one, of course.’

  ‘What, special needs, is he?’ asked Michael Creal, frowning and tapping his ash onto the carpet.

  ‘Well, if you could call needing to have a few heads at hand to kick the teeth out of, yes.’

  The smile vanished. ‘Teeth? You what?’

  ‘I’ll be quite honest with you. The boys who come here aren’t all that great to start with. They’ve all had pretty hard lives at home. Then they get sent here, taken away from everything they know - often for very good reasons, but still. Mr James, our head, likes to offer them a second chance, but the kind of problems we get - well, sometimes it’s hard for the boys to leave their pasts behind. That’s certainly been the case with Nick.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’d have to say, he’s been very difficult. He’s been in a fight pretty nearly every day since he got here.’

  ‘Well - but doesn’t that mean he’s in trouble? Psychologically, I mean?’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Mr Creal grimly. ‘As I say, you’re very generous. You could say that about any form of violence. Your father, for instance.’

  Michael Moberley looked away. ‘I suppose you could.’

  ‘But I’m beating around the bush. Make no mistake about it - Nick is a very violent young man indeed. Some of these boys are like landmines, I promise you. I’d be just a little bit careful about putting him in with some well bred young fellows just at the moment.’

  ‘What? Do you think he’s... what?’

  ‘Dangerous? To be frank, it’d be like putting a fox among the chickens. Not that he’d be there long - he’d be off as soon as the going got tough, I daresay. As I say, unless you can find somewhere very special. And somewhere to put him up when he gets expelled or runs away.’

  ‘Do you think he would?’

  ‘I know he would.’

  ‘Couldn’t he come back here?’

  ‘This is a state institution for people with nowhere else to go. If you take him out, he would be your responsibility from then on.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Nicholas is a dangerous young man, but we also think of him as being very highly at risk. They run away, fall in with some very bad types. Drugs, violence. We run a tough ship here, but not like out there.’ Tony Creal jerked his head at the window. ‘There’s a lot of nasty types preying on young lads like Nick. If he ran away, you have to ask yourself what’s in store for him. Murder, prostitution, addiction

  ‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ exclaimed Michael Moberley. ‘A boarding school’s out of the question, then?’

  ‘At the moment, yes. Of course, things might change. We’re equipped to deal with these kinds of problems at Meadow Hill. The staff here have a great deal of experience in dealing with difficult young people.’

  ‘Dear oh dear, I wasn’t expecting this.’

  Mr Creal cast a grim look at the man opposite him. ‘When you look at the boys in here, Mr Moberley, you see the murderers and rapists of tomorrow.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Nick’s been in the Secure Unit ... let me see ... ’ Mr Creal flicked through the pages of an imaginary report.

  ‘Five times. One lad suffered two broken ribs at the hands of our Nick. Another had to spend two days in hospital having treatment to his eye - there was a chance he’d lose the sight in one of them.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘There are signs that he’s just beginning to settle down. I have to say, though, Mr Moberley, I really don’t think it would be wise to uproot him again just now.’ Michael Moberley sat there chewing his nail, caught between wanting to be good, and wanting to avoid the kind of trouble the monster Tony Creal was describing would bring to his pleasant life.

  ‘So he’s a complete thug, then, you say?’

  ‘Really, yes. You’d never guess it to look at him, though,’ added Mr Creal, looking up. ‘Butter wouldn’t melt. Thing is, he always picks on the smaller kids, so there’s never a bruise on our Nick. Quite a bit of native cunning, in that sense, anyway.’

  ‘A bully? Well, sod that, then.’ Agitated, the other man got up and paced up and down. ‘It sounds like a total disaster. I’ve no idea what to do now!’

  ‘A suggestion?’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Leave him here for now. This is the best place for him. We have an enlightened head and unlike a lot of institutions, we do have programmes to try and help boys like Nick. He is showing signs of responding. Firmness and kindness, firmness and kindness.’ Mr Creal nodded firmly and kindly. ‘He’s had very little of either in his life.

  They do pay off. Who knows? Maybe in a year or so, he’ll be more able to accept the sort of help you can offer him.’ ‘Right. Well, that sounds about right. So - can I see him before I go?’

  Mr Creal shook his head firmly. ‘We never allow visits on site - I know, I know,’ he said, seeing an objection forming. ‘It’s the rules, and there are very sound reasons for it. Anyway, he’s in the Secure Unit right now. It would totally undermine our regime. If he improves, maybe he can come and see you.’

  ‘Dunno about that,’ muttered Mr Moberley. ‘We’ll see. Nothing I can do in the meantime?’

  ‘Well, if I can speak on behalf of the Home for a moment ‘Please do.’

  ‘Nick is one of those lads who could do with a few extras. Counselling, perhaps, to help him come to terms with the loss of his mother? Since you ask.. .If you can provide funds, a little towards that sort of thing... ’

  ‘I can do funds. It’s about all I can do, but I can do funds.’ Relieved that things were getting down to the simple matter of cash, Michael reached for his cheque book. ‘To the Home?’

  ‘To the Home would do fine. Write it out to Meadow Hill Special Funds. That’s the account we use for special needs provision. Which is what this is.’

  Mr Moberley bent his head and scribbled.

  Mr Creal beamed. ‘This will be a great help, I promise you.’

  Their business over, the two men parted. Mr Creal showed the other down to his car and watched him drive off. A boarding school - for one of these lads! What a bloody waste of money, thought Mr Creal as he made his way back upstairs. Back in his office, he looked at the cheque. Five hundred! Fantastic. He’d pay it in this afternoon. Meadow Hill Special Funds strikes again, he thought. He’d opened the account years ago for occasions just like this one, which cropped up from time to time. It had nothing to do with the Home of course, and there was only ever one beneficiary - himself.

  He picked up the phone and rang social services.

  ‘Mrs Batts? Tony Creal ... ’

  ‘Tony, how are you?’

  ‘All the better for hearing your dulcet tones, my dear ... ’

  ‘Sooo - what was the Pieman like?’

  ‘Rich, vain and selfish. One of those pop music types. Probably on drugs. The thing he was most concerned about was whether the newspapers might find out.’

  ‘Oh. Some sort of celebrity is he?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him, but he seemed to think he is. But as far as the Dane boy is concerned, we can forget it. He wasn’t remotely interested. Wouldn’t even offer any cash help - although he has enough of it, if the car he was driving was anything to go by.’

  ‘What a shaaame!’

  ‘It’s how the rich stay rich, Mrs Batts.’

  ‘I suppose. And how is Nick? Still doing well?’

  ‘Very much so. He’s made friends, he’s working hard in school. I’m really very happy with him.’

  ‘Is he due a visit? That friend of his mother, Jenny Hayes, is making herself a riiight paaain ab
out it.’

  ‘Not yet. To be honest, there’s still the odd fight. Don’t say anything about that to her, though, I don’t want to spoil his chances for later on. But he does have a very short fuse and when he blows, he blows. I believe you’ve seen some of it yourself.’

  ‘At dinner, yes, but I don’t really think he can be held...’

  ‘Not responsible, no, after what he’s been through. But maybe you haven’t seen him at his worst. I’ve seen him inflict some real damage on other boys quite a lot smaller than himself. I’ll be honest with you, Mary, it’s not so much Nick that worries me - it’s Mrs Hayes’ own children I’d be more concerned about.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘I know - it’s very much at odds with how he is most of the time, so I don’t think it’s a permanent thing - but I wouldn’t risk it, not yet.’

  ‘A bully.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Well. You’re always soo good about those boys! Proogress is being maade, that’s the main thing. You will keep me up to daate on this case, won’t you, Mr Creal?’ ‘I’ll certainly do that,’ he promised. And after a few more pleasantries, put down the phone.

  Job done.

  11

  Payback

  By the end of June, Nick had been in Meadow Hill a little under two months and he still hadn’t managed to get enough points to get him a home visit. Mr Creal kept giving them to him, but then Toms kept taking them away.

  ‘Rivalry,’ Mr Creal told him. ‘Toms is just a big kid. He knows you’re one of my favourites, he knows I’d stop him if he beat you too much, so he takes your points away instead.’

  The whole points system was used as a form of punishment, and they never went to the kids who needed them. Oliver had the full twelve, had done forever, but he had nowhere to go. He hadn’t heard from his mum in years. Even the Christmas and birthday presents had dried up by this time.

  ‘I’ve got somewhere to go and they won’t give me any,’ Nick moaned.

  ‘Yeah, fancy that,’ said Davey.

  Davey had six points, but no one expected him to keep them for long.

  ‘They know I won’t come back if they let me out of this misery pit,’ he said. ‘You watch - they’ll all be gone as soon as the visit comes near. They always find some excuse.’

  Davey had been planning his breakout since he arrived, but he’d run off so many times, the prefects never let him out of their sight. He was forever trying to get Nick to come with him, but Nick was still putting his faith in ‘dear Tony Creal’, as the other boys called him. Every time he saw him, Creal gave increasingly optimistic reports of how close he was to getting a visit, or how Jenny was working her way through the procedures.

  Davey was unimpressed.

  ‘You don’t wanna believe a word he says,’ he said.

  But Nick didn’t see it like that. As far as he was concerned, Creal was the only decent thing in the place.

  ‘What about you, Oliver?’ he asked.

  Oliver shrugged. ‘He likes you, so why would he send you away?’ he said, which Nick thought was a bit odd. As if Creal was going to go to such a load of trouble just to keep some kid near him!

  Davey shook his head. ‘Jobs for the boys, innit? I reckon they get paid per head in these places, that’s why no one ever gets out. You wanna come with me, mate, I tell you,’ he said. But Nick shook his head.

  ‘I can’t anyway. I’m like Oliver, I got nowhere to go,’ he said bitterly. A visit was one thing, but after that, what? Why hadn’t Jenny got in touch with him? She seemed to have abandoned him altogether. His only hope was that something was going on behind the scenes. Until he lost all hope of that, he wasn’t going to go outside the law. That would make him...

  ‘An outlaw,’ grinned Davey. ‘Great!’

  Nick shook his head.

  ‘A twat,’ he said.

  ‘I could sort you out,’ insisted Davey. ‘Friend of mine.’

  ‘Creal says

  ‘Creal!’ Davey rolled his eyes. ‘You’ll wait forever if you wait for dear Tony Creal. Yer better trusting my mate Sunshine.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Someone who’ll give us a few jobs and a roof if we do all right. Hey, what about you, Oliver? You gonna do a runner with me?’

  Oliver, who had been sitting on his haunches at their feet, looked up and shook his head with a smile. It was a tease, really. Everybody knew Oliver was going nowhere.

  ‘I’m no good at running.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Davey contemplated him for a moment. What on earth would Oliver do on the outside? He couldn’t run, got into a panic at the slightest thing. No good for nicking...

  ‘I know,’ said Davey. ‘We could dress you up as a girl and put ribbons in yer ’air and flog you off to lorry drivers as underage totty. They’d pay a bloody fortune.’

  ‘Right,’ said Nick. ‘Then when they find out he’s not a girl, it’s too late!’

  They all laughed. Oliver got up and did an impression of a girl giving the come on, and they hooted some more. ‘Or I could flog my arse down Canal Street, where the homos hang out. I’d make more money like that. Make a fortune, I reckon.’

  ‘We could be your pimps,’ said Nick, and they laughed again.

  ‘Seriously, though, mate,’ said Davey to Nick. ‘You don’t wanna wait for dear Tony. You might be in his good books now, but it won’t last. Someone else’ll come along, wern they, Oliver?’

  Oliver nodded grimly.

  ‘He’s been OK so far,’ said Nick.

  ‘So long as you give him what he wants,’ said Davey.

  Nick shrugged. It sounded like the usual O’Brian anti-everyone-in-charge stuff. Nothing more was said.

  Later that week, Nick’s name appeared for the second time on the Flat List.

  ‘That’s twice in two weeks,’ said Davey. ‘Don’t forget my fags, will you?'

  Nick grinned happily.

  ‘You look pleased,’ said Davey wryly.

  ‘Why should I mind?’ asked Nick in surprise. It was a treat. Who minded being given treats?

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were the sort,’ said Davey, pulling a face.

  ‘He’s not so bad,’ said Nick. ‘You lot! Just because he’s in charge don’t make him bad.’

  Davey shrugged. ‘If you can get some fags out of it, I don’t care what you get up to.’

  It was the same crew as before - Flynn, Oliver and Nick. They met outside, as before, and were led up by Andrews as before, in their dressing gowns, to be met at the door by Mr Creal. There wasn’t much on the box this time, so they watched videos and ate nuts and crisps. Afterwards, Mr Creal got out a pack of cards and they all sat around the coffee table drinking Cola and playing various games - brag and pontoon for pennies which Mr Creal doled out from a big jar. Flynn wanted to teach them all poker and got very pleased with himself and self-important, teaching them all how to play. It was fun. The stacks of pennies went up or down and for a short while, you could forget where you were.

  At the end of the evening, Nick was expecting to get sent back early again but this time it was Oliver and Flynn who got sent home, and him who was asked to stay on.

  ‘You don’t mind, Nick, do you?’ said Mr Creal. ‘We need to have a little chat.’

  That sounded ominous. Nick sat on the sofa and watched Flynn and Oliver leave. As Oliver closed the door behind him, he cast an odd look back at Nick. Their eyes locked for a moment, then Oliver looked up to Mr Creal, who was standing behind him. For a moment, Nick was certain that something had passed between the two of them, but then the moment was past. The door closed.

  ‘Just the two of us, now, eh?’ Mr Creal came and sat down next to Nick on the sofa. His voice sounded funny. He sat a bit too close. Nick could smell him, his aftershave, the soap powder on his clothes, the cigarettes on his breath. He shuffled slightly further away.

  Mr Creal took out a cigarette and lit it. He seemed nervous. ‘I’ve got some news, Nick,’ he said softly. ‘
And I’m sorry to say it ain’t good.’ He pulled a face.

  ‘Sir?’ asked Nick.

  ‘I had a call from a relative of yours. The Pie side, Mrs Batts called them. They’re not interested. I know, it’s disappointing, but it can’t come as any surprise.’ He paused and shrugged sympathetically. ‘Sorry, Nick. It’s no go.’

  ‘But what about Jenny ... Mrs Hayes? She’s a better bet, isn’t she?’

  Mr Creal held his cigarette close to his face and bent his head to one side, in a pained gesture. ‘That’s not going too well, either, Nick. You know Mrs Batts had her doubts about it. No man in the house, you see. Those two kids she has got are a handful, apparently. The little boy has problems ... the girl is very wilful, getting into trouble at school. In the end, the social services have said no.’

  Nick stared up at him. ‘But you said ...’

  ‘I know! I know. I had such high hopes. I didn’t know those kids were so unstable. Mrs Batts put in her report just yesterday. She turned her down.’

  Nick couldn’t believe it. Somehow, he’d managed to convince himself that this couldn’t be. Here at Meadow Hill, the rest of his childhood? No mother, no one to care for him? Just stuck here until he was sixteen getting knocked around, and then booted out on the street?

  ‘Then I’m... I’m just here, then,’ he said.

  Mr Creal put his arm over Nick’s shoulder. ‘I know, Nick,’ he said. ‘It’s hard. But this is your home, now.’

  It was a bitter blow. Nick felt like crying. ‘But that’s not fair,’ he mumbled, trying hard to keep the tears out of his voice. ‘Isn’t there anywhere else?’

  Mr Creal suddenly took him in his arms and buried his own head on the boy’s chest, as if overcome with sympathy.

  ‘Nick, Nick, don’t,’ he whispered. ‘You have to be brave.’ It was uncomfortable and really quite weird being so close, but Nick wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking that his whole life had just ended. He was thinking about his mother. She was the one who was supposed to look after him. Where was she now that he needed her? Gone, gone forever, and left him like this.

  His tears were winning the struggle, and he wiped his eyes on his dressing gown, which was awkward, because Mr Creal was holding his head tightly against his chest, his eyes closed, shaking his head and patting his knee. Now he raised his head and pushed Nick’s head against his own shoulder.