‘Aha!’ a strange little voice said from behind me. ‘Mish Mannypenny, I preshume?’
I was sitting at the desk in the corner of my classroom at the time, so I spun around in my swivel chair (a recent and welcome addition) to see a young boy I didn’t recognise standing in the doorway. He looked to be about 11, with bushy black hair. The sort of hair that always looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in some time, even if it had. Judging by the rest of him, however, I decided it probably hadn’t. Way-too-short trousers (so often a give-away) and a shirt that, though clearly once white, was an unpleasant shade of ‘old washing-up water’ beigey-yellow.
I stood up and extended a hand, happy to play along with his air of formality. ‘Well, hello,’ I said. ‘I’m Mrs Watson. Who are you?’
‘The name’s Bond,’ he replied, giving my hand a gentle shake. ‘Jamesh Bond.’
Ah, I thought, Sean Connery – that explains the strange attempt at a Scottish accent. ‘Okay, James,’ I replied, ‘it’s very nice to meet you, but do you have a school name that I could use?’
He seemed to consider this for a minute, inspecting the hand I’d just shaken. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘I’m called Nathan as well and I’m 11 but I have a birthday soon and then I will be 12.’ He smiled proudly at me. ‘Are you my new teacher, Miss?’
‘Indeed I am,’ I confirmed, ushering my new recruit in properly. The deputy head, Donald, had already told me he’d be sending a boy called Nathan down after lunch, and by the looks of this little lad, I had the correct one. I also noted that his Scottish accent had now disappeared, to be replaced by a slightly high-pitched, excitable chatter. ‘That’s a lovely name, Nathan,’ I told him, having sat him down. ‘And, as I say,’ I added, pulling out the chair opposite to make it better to chat to him, ‘I am going to be looking after you for a bit, though not in the same way as a regular class teacher. I’m going to be looking after you because you have been getting into quite a bit of trouble lately, haven’t you? That’s why you’re here.’
I’d been running the Unit for just over a year now, so I already knew a fair few of the more ‘memorable’ kids, but with Nathan only being 11, and it only being late September – just a few weeks into the autumn term – he was a boy I hadn’t come across before. All I knew so far was that he’d already managed to get a bit of a name for himself as a troublemaker. A boy who kept getting into fights, even though he didn’t look the type, he had also variously been described as ‘a bit odd’, as having learning difficulties and, most damningly, as a child who threw the most outrageous tantrums and was in danger of permanent exclusion.
And all this in a matter of less than a month, I thought grimly. His reputation must have preceded him and then some.
He lowered his gaze to the floor in recognition of his misdemeanours. ‘But I’m going to try to help you be a good boy now,’ I added. ‘That’s the plan. Are you going to try your best for me?’
‘OK, Miss,’ he said, brightening, ‘I’ll be good for you, I promise. I think you’re gonna like me, too, because I like you.’
Running the Unit, as it was called, in our local comprehensive school, was something of a dream job for me. I’d been in youth work for some time and was very experienced, but applying to manage it – ‘it’ being the place where kids were contained when they couldn’t be in mainstream school, for whatever reason – had been something of a long shot for me. I had no education background or formal teaching qualifications, so no one was more surprised than me when I got the call after the interview to tell me the job was mine if I wanted it. They even told me I could work towards whatever qualifications they or I thought might be useful ‘on the job’.
And the Unit soon became an integral part of the fabric of the school. Indeed, within just two terms, the head had realised that it was becoming a victim of its own success, the numbers slowly and surely increasing to a point where it would soon risk getting out of control. And perhaps that was inevitable; once the teachers realised I was happy for them to hand me their most disruptive children, they were understandably eager to refer them to the Unit rather than try to find a way to manage them in their classes. Which was not a criticism; I’d have been inclined to do the same myself, not least for the benefit of the other pupils.
I was also, I soon became aware, my own worst enemy. And after realising that I was the kind of gal who just couldn’t say no, the head of the school, Mike Moore, informed me that he was hiring another behavioural manager, Jim Dawson. This, he said, was so that one of us could be permanently in situ in the Unit, while the other was free to wander the corridors and sit in on classes where a teacher had reported major disruptions. It also meant I had additional time to do more home visits with parents or guardians; something that was proving really constructive.
Jim and I had soon become an efficient team. We would alternate who did this, and also work with the teachers, to show them different methods of handling disruptive behaviour, so we could at least partly stem the incoming tide. I got along great with Jim. In his fifties, he was diminutive like me, but also stocky, with a friendly face and a no-nonsense attitude. Having him around made my job so much easier.
And it was a great job, no doubt about it; something I could really get my teeth into. Together with Jim, I looked after kids from all kinds of backgrounds, sent to the Unit for all sorts of reasons. They could be the bullied or the bully, the distressed and dispossessed, the lazy, the hyperactive, the angry, the apathetic or, in what seemed to be this case, the complete misfit. One thing united them and informed everything I did: they were kids who had troubles and couldn’t cope with school. We currently had 40 of them on our list, too – and usually around 10 in the Unit at any given time.
Needless to say, no two days were ever the same, and each one – day and child – brought a different set of problems. And though, right now, little Nathan seemed completely sweet and biddable, you didn’t join our numbers for nothing. So, initially, my job would be to observe and assess him, slotting him into the routine and watching him carefully, to see if there were any obvious triggers or situations that would make him flare up and kick off.
This, in the first couple of days, proved difficult. True to his word, Nathan had obviously taken a shine to me and wanted to be constantly at my side, using any excuse to leave his table and come to sit by me instead.
Sometimes it would just be to come and smile at me or touch my arm, at which point I’d just acknowledge him and steer him gently back to his group. But at other times, he’d want to linger and I’d have to become firm with him, and it was during these exchanges that I’d get a glimpse of a darker side, as he clearly didn’t respond well to being spoken to sternly. It would be then, having been told in no uncertain terms that he must do as he was told and stay put at his desk like everyone else, that he would stamp his foot and glare and, having returned to his chair, treat me to a look of pure hatred – his lips tight against his teeth, like a dog about to growl, and his eyes narrowing, changing his face completely.
He’d snap out of it almost as soon as he adopted it, but as we reached the end of his first week it was beginning to become clear that this was a strange and clearly complex little lad.
He had other, quite arresting behaviours, too. He seemed to have a compulsion to touch and stroke certain women. I couldn’t exactly categorise it – there was no particular type or trigger that I could see, but he was very particular about which women he was drawn to. He also seemed to like disrupting other children if they were playing or working quietly. To do this, he’d usually cry out that someone had just called him a name, then proceed to hit out at or kick the unfortunate victim, who almost always, I quickly established, had not said a word.
He was also without fear; he had no anxiety about tackling his bigger, stronger classmates. He’d take on anyone, regardless of their size. He’d provoke the boys, too – never a good idea, if you’re in a behaviour unit – by stroking them as he passed, fluttering his eyelashes and pouting his lips, and saying things like ‘You think I’m sexy, don’t ya?’ and ‘Ooh, I know you want me!’
Needless to say, this went down badly. The other lads I had in with me at the time, particularly James and Dillon, would swear at him and threaten to batter him, which of course caused disruption, and I began to realise why he was a difficult boy to have in class. Nathan himself, at this point, would become seriously distressed, and it would be a good 30 minutes – with him mostly sobbing hysterically – before I could quieten him down and get the group back on track again.
That was the most interesting thing, I decided – this abrupt change in mood. I’d catch him out, give him detention, perhaps, and get the evil eye from him, but within a moment, he was usually back to being angelic, particularly if there was no one else around. It just didn’t appear to sink in with him that he may have annoyed me or upset me. It would be an interesting process, I decided, getting to understand what made him tick and, if I could manage to do so, to help him gain insight and control over his behaviours.
Interesting, and perhaps something of a multi-faceted challenge, as I was to realise that Friday afternoon. It was a couple of minutes before the final afternoon bell went – home time for the kids and finishing-up time for the staff, before a much-looked-forward-to break over the weekend. I’d had Jim with me for most of the afternoon and we’d been working on conflict resolution with the group; a drama-based lesson where they would act out various scenarios that could lead to an argument, and we’d look at solutions that wouldn’t end in a fight or an exclusion.
The going-home routine was the same every day, just as it tends to be in schools everywhere. And today it was Jim who was directing operations.
‘Right,’ he said, as the bell sounded. ‘Stop what you’re doing, tidy your area and put your things away quietly, then get your coats and line up by the door.’
Pens began going into pencil cases and chairs started scraping back – so far, just an ordinary end to the day – but then we both became aware of Nathan, who’d moved only in as much as he’d sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Do you have a problem with that, Nathan?’ asked Jim.
I saw the strange look come across Nathan’s face even before he spoke. ‘Yeah, I do, you ugly motherfucker,’ he said, grinning nastily.
I was used to his kamikaze approach to dealing with bigger, tougher boys but was genuinely aghast to hear him speaking like this to Jim.
The other kids started to giggle and nudge each other as they prepared to leave, and Jim took the sensible step of dismissing them. ‘Okay, you lot, you can go now,’ he told them. ‘Have a nice weekend, and we will see you on Monday.’
I added my own farewell, herding them out, aware of their disappointed faces at being asked to leave just as the entertainment was about to begin. If that had been Nathan’s plan – to grab some attention – it had backfired.
I shut the door then, turned back and, after exchanging a glance and some raised eyebrows with Jim, asked Nathan gently if something was troubling him.
He didn’t look at me. Instead he put his hands in front of his face, as if to create a barrier between us. He then turned his face towards Jim. ‘It’s you I’m talking to!’ he shouted. ‘You God-damned cocksucker!’
Jim calmly placed a hand on each hip. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t speak to me like that, young man,’ he said mildly.
Nathan glared at him. ‘I just did!’
‘Or,’ Jim continued, ‘I might have to ring your dad.’
‘Ha!’ Nathan threw back. ‘You wouldn’t dare! My dad is seven foot six and the last teacher that rang him got thrown out of a window and beaten up, you stupid prick!’
I was obviously not meant to take part in this conversation so I simply stood by and watched, bemused. As, I suspected, was Jim. It wasn’t as if Nathan had been disciplined for anything. This outburst seemed to have come entirely out of the blue. The question was, Why? Where had it come from?
‘Why are you mad with me, Nath?’ he asked quietly.
‘That’s not my fucking name, arsehole,’ came the response.
‘Sorry,’ Jim answered, ‘I should have said “Nathan”, shouldn’t I?’
Nathan shook his head then. ‘I said that’s not my fucking name!’
‘Oh,’ said Jim, as if enjoying a normal conversation, ‘so what should I call you, then?’
Nathan uncrossed his angry arms and pushed himself back away from the desk. ‘Call me what the fuck you like,’ he said. ‘I’m off home now anyway. And what you can do is stick this up your arse!’
With that, he stood up, stuck his middle finger up to Jim’s face, kicked his chair over and walked casually out of the classroom.
We stared at each other, stunned, as the sound of Nathan’s footsteps faded, both of us wondering if what had just happened had really taken place. It wasn’t that the exchange itself was anything shocking – we’d both heard much more colourful language – it was just the completely random, unprovoked nature of it that flummoxed us, so much so that for a few minutes we could manage nothing more grown-up than a five-minute fit of the giggles. ‘Well,’ observed Jim, when we finally pulled ourselves together, ‘nice to know I’ve made a good impression, anyway!’
Though I wrote up the notes I’d made on Nathan over the weekend, I returned to work on Monday morning still at a loss to understand my new charge, who seemed to have no clear triggers, or continuity, to his various behaviours. Often it was clear – the attention-seeking bully with the minuscule self-esteem, or the child who lacked empathy due to never having formed solid bonds. But in Nathan’s case it seemed such a rag-bag of different issues that it was difficult to know where to start.
But wherever I did start, it seemed I’d be starting early. I arrived at my usual time – a good 45 minutes before the children were due to be there – to find him waiting in the corridor outside my classroom. Having the children in school early wasn’t unusual – one of the new initiatives Jim and I had put in place being a breakfast club – but Nathan obviously wasn’t interested in eating food.
He looked his same dishevelled self and seemed very pleased to see me. I smiled at him. ‘Morning, sweetie,’ I said. ‘You’re early.’
‘Morning, Miss,’ he said brightly. ‘You look beautiful today. And I love that,’ he added, pointing to the jade-coloured glittery scarf I had threaded beneath the lapels of my black jacket.
‘Thank you, Nathan,’ I said, unlocking and opening the classroom door. ‘That’s very nice of you. And now you’re going to have to find something to amuse yourself with as I have to get some work organised for you all for today.’
‘Could I make something?’ he asked. ‘You know, from the art box?’
I told him he could. ‘But only on condition that you tidy everything away nicely before the others get here, okay?’
I thought of bringing up his inexplicable outburst at Jim the previous Friday, but decided against it, something telling me that now wasn’t the moment. To start the week the way the previous one had ended, with a flare-up and acrimony, didn’t seem the best way to proceed.
Instead I left him to it and went to my desk to start preparing the day’s activities, but after around 10 or 15 minutes I became distracted by Nathan, who’d previously been rummaging around and cutting things up in silence, beginning to chatter to himself.
At first I thought he was just providing himself with a running commentary, but the rhythm sounded funny, and I pricked up my ears. Yes, I was hearing right, he was engaged in a conversation – a two-way conversation he was having with himself. And using markedly different voices, as well: one high-pitched, the other lower. I wasn’t sure what he’d been making, but he was bent over his desk and appeared to be putting something on and off his head.
I got up from my chair and walked over to him so I could get a closer look, but he was side-on to me and obviously so engrossed in what he was doing that he didn’t seem to notice my approach. It was now even clearer that his dialogue was between a male and a female, who seemed to be involved in some sort of argument. And as I stood and watched – he still seemed oblivious to my proximity – I realised that every time the female character was speaking, he was putting whatever he’d made on his head. The penny dropped shortly afterwards – he’d made himself a wig. It was a band of white card to which he’d attached several long strips of yellow sugar paper, and which he was now balancing on his head as a crude hairpiece.
‘Are you okay, Nathan?’ I asked, wondering what the discussion was about.
He turned to me and smiled, holding the wig so it didn’t slip off. ‘Yes, Miss,’ he said. ‘Everything is fine, thank you.’
‘What’s that on your head?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it’s just my hair, Miss. I think I have to be Jenny today and she has long blonde hair.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Was that Jenny you were just talking to?’
He giggled girlishly. ‘No, Miss. I told you. I am Jenny, can’t you tell?’
‘Ah –’ I began.
‘– and I was speaking to Jack,’ he explained. ‘He wants to be my boyfriend but I told him I am not a dirty girl. So I won’t be his girlfriend and that’s that.’
I was confused now. ‘So where has Nathan gone?’ I asked him.
He giggled again. ‘Oh, Miss, you are funny. I’m right here!’ He beamed at me then. ‘I love you, Miss, and I am so glad it’s Monday,’ he announced, jumping up then and throwing his arms tightly around my waist.
I hugged him briefly, then gently prised his arms from around me, crouching down as I did so to talk to him. ‘Good,’ I said, ‘but listen, it’s time to tidy these things away now.’
‘Okay,’ he said, and duly began gathering the paper and scissors and glue up.
‘And Nathan,’ I added, ‘you’ll need to put your hair in your drawer as well.’
‘But I want to wear it, Miss! I told you, I need to be Jenny today.’
I began helping him pop things back into the box. ‘Nathan, I’m sorry, but you can’t wear your hair in school. I mean, it’s fine if it’s just you and me, but not when the others are around. The big boys might laugh at you, mightn’t they? And we don’t want that, do we?’
He spent a few seconds considering this, and I wondered if I should be braced for a small explosion. But it seemed not. ‘Okay, Miss,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it off as soon as I’ve finished tidying up.’ Which he duly did, clearing the desk and putting the box back in its corner, before taking his wig off and placing it very carefully in his drawer.
With such a lot to think about, I took the opportunity to go and grab a coffee from the staff room and see what else I could find out when Jim arrived and was able to take the reins in the Unit. Did Nathan have some mental health issues or did he just have an overactive imagination? I was no psychologist, but there was clearly something psychological going on. He was clearly inhabiting multiple characters – so did that mean he had multiple personalities too? It would certainly fit in with the sometimes inexplicable about-turns in his mood and behaviour – was he acting out different people? Playing different roles as a coping mechanism? There was obviously a lot I needed to learn about this child if I was going to be in a position to get him back into the mainstream.
Coffee in hand, I went along to visit the special needs team, where I knew the head of department, Julia Styles, would probably be able to tell me more.
‘Well, not much,’ she confessed, when I explained about ‘Jenny’ and the wig and wondered if she knew more about it. ‘He’s kind of fallen off the radar a little. You know what it’s like, Casey. It’s mostly been fire-fighting. Everyone who’s taught him has been too busy running around trying to stop fights breaking out because of his incredible talent for offending right, left and centre.’
‘What about the educational psychologist?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he’s definitely been referred. In fact, I’m sure he’s been seen …’ She went to a filing cabinet and flicked through some papers. ‘Yes, he has. He was seen whilst still at his primary school, and we’re still waiting for the report to be sent on to us. That’s one of the reasons he’s with you – to manage and contain him till we’ve got something concrete to go on. I suppose we’ll decide what best to do with him then.’
‘Can you chase it up, d’you think?’
Julia nodded. ‘Already on my to-do list.’
‘And do you have anything else on him that might be useful? What about his family circumstances? Anything significant there?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Julia said, scribbling another note on her pad. ‘But I can certainly find out …’ She stopped and frowned at me guiltily. ‘Sorry, Casey,’ she said. ‘This should have been chased up for you last week, shouldn’t it? You must think we treat your Unit like a kid-shaped black hole sometimes, mustn’t you?’
‘No, not at all,’ I reassured her. Yes, exactly, I thought.
It was frustrating, sometimes, waiting for information. We hadn’t received anything at all on Nathan up to now, barring a few short notes on his behaviour. We did know he was statemented as having special educational needs, but without the report from his last school, we didn’t know exactly why. I knew these things took time, of course, sometimes as long as months, but I also knew that if somebody didn’t push for information, it could take even longer.
My little nudge, however, quickly paid dividends. By the middle of that week I was suddenly awash with information about Nathan – child-protection files that might be key to unlocking the mystery surrounding the odd and worrying behaviours of this lonely, troubled boy. I learned that social services had already been involved with Nathan’s family on a number of occasions.
But as I delved into the paperwork I was to be disappointed once again, as there was very little that enlightened me. An only child, Nathan apparently lived with his mother and stepfather (he no longer had contact with his dad) and there had been indications of neglect. It had been neighbours who had first alerted the authorities about the family, when, as a younger child, Nathan had so often been left at home alone. And action had been promptly taken. It was recorded that the mother and stepfather had undergone family therapy, but the notes were vague, only summarising that following the intervention no further action had been deemed required.
I was still awaiting the report from the educational psychologist, of course, but, in the meantime, it wasn’t much to go on. And as the days went by, it seemed that, now he was based in the Unit with me and Jim, Nathan was a child very much out of sight, out of mind. For Nathan this was obviously something of a welcome development, because away from the many challenges of trying to fit into the mainstream, he was relaxing into being the person he really wanted to be.
And it seemed it was me who was the catalyst. He’d particularly latched on to me and held nothing back now; he’d arrive early for school more often than not, and pop his wig on completely unselfconsciously. He’d also started accompanying me into the dinner hall every lunchtime – which I allowed – and it became clear that he had some odd food issues too; he would only eat pale-coloured food: rice, pasta, chicken and cheese. If there wasn’t anything the right hue, he simply wouldn’t eat. And over the next couple of weeks it became clear that there might be a pattern forming in one of his behaviours, because on the next two Friday afternoons we had the same inexplicable end-of-day meltdown; mostly with Jim but also now including me.
‘You know what?’ I said to Jim after Nathan’s third week in the Unit. ‘This tantrum-throwing – have you noticed how it always happens on a Friday? No other day, just the Friday, and you know what I’m thinking? I’m wondering if it’s almost like he’s setting down a marker. Giving us a good reason to keep him in the Unit for another week. What do you think?’
I’d been pleased with my little theory, so I was even more pleased when Jim seemed to think I’d hit the nail on the head. ‘That fits,’ he agreed, ‘because I do think that’s something he’s worked out since he’s been here. That kids come and go – that there’s always talk about behaviours that will get them out or keep them in here. And let’s face it, there’s not much for him back in the mainstream compared to this, is there? It’s not like he’s missing a great bunch of friends, is it?’
I shook my head. The truth was that Nathan didn’t seem to have a friend in the world.
The reality was that it might not just be regular school that Nathan found difficult. As I mulled things over during the following days, it occurred to me that there might be somewhere else that he found traumatic currently: the home he returned to every night and weekend.
Nathan lived fairly close to the school, on a street that was almost on my own route home, and with it still being quite balmy, it was a route I often walked – it was a good end-of-day 20-minute de-stress. On one occasion, I’d even seen him, sitting on a front-garden wall on the corner, nose buried in a comic. He’d not seen me – if he had, I knew he’d be over like a shot – but it had made me wonder what was happening behind his own front-garden wall. And perhaps there was a way to find out.
The next Friday, I casually suggested that as I had to get home early and would be leaving school promptly, perhaps we could walk home – as far as his at least – together.
Nathan was, as I expected, thrilled with this development, and was chattering ten to the dozen as we left the school grounds. It was only when we neared the road that joined his that he stopped talking abruptly, stood still on the pavement and said, ‘Oh, God, Miss – I need my hair!’
‘Your hair? You don’t normally take your hair home, do you, Nathan?’
He looked stricken. ‘I do sometimes,’ he admitted, as if he’d been caught out in a terrible crime.
‘You’ll be fine without it,’ I reassured him. ‘Look, we’re not far from home now.’
But he didn’t seem to be listening. He’d thrown down his backpack and started tearing at his school sweatshirt. ‘Can you help me get this off, Miss?’ he asked, holding his hands up like a toddler would, so I could haul it over his head. He looked quite desperate by now, so I obliged.
Once it was free, he immediately tied the arms round his head, bandana-style, knotting it at the front so that the body of it hung down behind his head. ‘That’s better, Miss,’ he said, immediately looking calmer. Then he smiled. ‘Did you see anything on Nathan’s back when you helped him get his top off?’
He was talking in a higher pitch now and I ran through the words in my head, realising he was now being Jenny. ‘No, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Should I have seen something?’
‘Just look at these bruises,’ he said, suddenly pulling up his school shirt. ‘And no, he didn’t do it falling off his auntie’s washing machine!’
I looked at his back. There were indeed some bruises on it. Yellow-purple. Large. And some nasty scratches too.
He pulled down the shirt again. ‘How did this happen, sweetie?’ I asked him as he picked up his backpack.
‘His no good fuckin’ stepfather did it,’ he said, in his strange squeaky girl’s voice, ‘cos the poor lad didn’t want no shitty curry for tea, that’s how!’
I stopped on the pavement myself now. ‘Sweetie, can you take off your hair now, d’you think? Then you can talk to me as Nathan, can’t you?’
He looked at me for a moment, then dropped the bag on the ground again and started undoing the knot. He’d started crying. ‘You can’t tell anyone, Miss,’ he sobbed. ‘It was only a play fight. My daddy loves me, he does. We were just playing.’
This was clearly something he’d needed to get off his chest for a while. But now he finally had, I could see he was terrified. ‘Shush, darling, it’s okay,’ I soothed. ‘And, sweetie, you know you can tell me anything. But there’s one thing – sometimes I do have to tell someone, because it’s my job. But I will make absolutely sure you don’t get in any trouble for telling me, okay?’
I had to say this. It was one of the fundamentals of my job. When a child confided in me it was crucial that they knew I couldn’t keep secrets. That there could be no ‘don’t tell anyone this, but …’ with me. And it was of vital importance that I made this clear from the outset, so there would be no loss of trust down the line. I was anxious, though, because for all my reassurance, this was possible evidence of abuse, which I was duty bound to report. And it might end up taking us down a path where my reassurances would be worthless. One thing I did know was that abusers, on the whole, didn’t take kindly to being found out. And the best way to ensure meddlesome social services didn’t sniff around was to terrify the abused child into silence.
I made a decision, then. To make a detour with him, to a little café just round the corner, where he might open up more or, if he didn’t feel he could, at least return home feeling a bit calmer.
And, as it turned out to be the latter, I decided that once I’d dropped him at his house, I would hotfoot it back to school and have a chat with Gary Clark, our child protection officer, who was invariably on the premises beyond five.
‘Here we are, then,’ I said brightly, as we stopped at Nathan’s front gate – a sad affair, listing forlornly on one hinge. I’d made no more mention of his bruises and neither had he, and I didn’t want to bring them up again now. ‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ I said, as he headed down the short path, upon which he turned back.
‘It’s okay, Miss,’ he said. ‘You can go now. I’ll go inside in a minute.’
‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll wait till you get in.’
Nathan looked slightly agitated on hearing this. He shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘There’s no point you waiting,’ he admitted finally, ‘cos no one’s in yet.’
‘So what will you do?’ I asked.
‘Wait on the wall,’ he said, nodding towards it, ‘Or sometimes I go to the library to play on the computers.’
‘Do you do that every day?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Mostly. So I just go to the amusement arcade, or the library, like I said. Till it’s time to go home for my tea.’
Hmm, I thought. Maybe Gary could wait. ‘Well, you know what?’ I said, making the sort of split-second decision that I knew could work for or against me. ‘I’ll wait on the wall with you, shall I? Then you won’t be on your own.’
And not for too long, I hoped, now that we’d already made the detour to the café. So perhaps I’d finally get a glimpse of the stepfather who was so keen to play-fight with his stepson. And I was right. No more than 20 or 30 minutes had passed before a man who Nathan identified as his stepdad began walking up the street.
He was a small, skinny man, in his late thirties, I’d have guessed, wearing what looked like dirty jeans beneath an even dirtier overcoat. He didn’t look particularly menacing, but then I wasn’t 11, was I? And there was also something about his expression that unsettled me. As he approached I stood and smiled, the better to greet him, but no sooner had I extended my hand and begun to introduce myself than he brushed past me, quite roughly, scowling and grunting as he did so. ‘I know who you are,’ he said, even though he couldn’t have, surely? ‘And the kid knows his way home,’ he added rudely.
To say I was taken aback was an understatement. He’d swatted me away as if I was an irritating fly. He’d also grabbed Nathan’s wrist and was now frogmarching him up the path to the front door.
‘Bye, Nathan,’ I called out. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, okay?’ Upon which he turned and gave me a wave and an apologetic little smile, looking every inch a lamb going to the slaughter. I just hoped I hadn’t made everything worse.
As it was probably too late now to return to school and find Gary, I headed home myself, mulling over what best to do. There was probably no point in making a direct referral to the emergency duty team at social services. My previous experience, both in school and before that as a youth worker, had taught me that unless it was what they deemed a ‘real emergency’ then nobody would do anything until after the weekend anyway.
As it was I spent the next day and Sunday worrying about Nathan. I walked into town a couple of times hoping that I might see him hanging around the arcades or something, but this proved to be pointless. And when my husband Mike wanted to know what I hoped to achieve in doing so, I didn’t really have an answer for him anyway. In the end I decided that there was no more I could do until Monday, apart from writing up the usual incident report.
The bruises and scratches kept playing on my mind, though – particularly the thought that my presence at Nathan’s gate might have caused more to have been added over the weekend. So Monday morning saw me in school even earlier than usual, and straight up to the child protection office. Happily, Gary was there, so I could hand my report over, which he read then and there, very intently.
I liked Gary, and also had great respect for him. He’d been at the school for a good few years now and had helped me out with extra information on quite a few occasions. He was also big on protocol. He knew just what to do when there was a possibility that a child might be at risk. And I knew that he was passionate about the children in his care. It was no surprise, therefore, when he picked up his telephone and immediately rang social services. He explained the situation and said that he would fax them a copy of the particulars; he also said that he would like the matter to be followed up.
‘Thanks so much,’ I said, relieved that action had now been taken. ‘I can’t tell you how much of a weight that is off my mind.’
‘No problem, Casey,’ he said. ‘Only too happy to –’
He was about to say ‘help’, but the word was drowned out by a sharp rat-a-tat on his office door. Since I was closest I went to answer it, only to find myself face to face with the headmaster.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Casey. That’s handy. Can I have a quick word?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Shall I come to your office? I was just leaving Gary’s …’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘No need. I want to speak to you both anyway. Nathan Greaves,’ he continued. ‘Just had his father on the phone. Odd phone call. Says he’s unhappy with you having out of school contact with Nathan – specifically, walking him home on Friday afternoon. Says it’s upset him, and that you ask too many questions about his family situation, which apparently confuses him’ – he put the word ‘confused’ into finger quote marks – ‘and supposedly makes him misbehave at home.’
My eyes had been widening as he’d spoken, but not that much. A rearguard action by the sound of things, and Gary clearly thought so too.
‘Hmm, you’ll probably want to read this, sir,’ he said immediately, passing the headmaster the report I’d already given to him.
The head took the report and began to scan it. ‘In a nutshell,’ Gary continued, ‘it highlights some child protection issues that came to light on Friday afternoon. I suspect Nathan’s father managed to establish some of the things he’d said to Casey and he’s now concerned about how much more we might know.’
The head read to the bottom then handed Gary the file back. ‘I suspect you’re right,’ he agreed, ‘so I’ll leave it with you. Though, as a precaution, I think you’d better not walk Nathan home again, Casey – not until this is investigated, at any rate. Safer not to go against the father’s wishes at this point, I think.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I’d already come to that conclusion myself anyway. The last thing I want is to make life more difficult for the poor boy. On which note, I’d better get down to my classroom before he and the rest of them arrive, hadn’t I?’
The headmaster shook his head. ‘Nathan’s not coming in today, apparently. He’s ill. Or so his father tells me, anyway.’
‘Really?’ I said, my anxiety now increasing a notch or two.
‘Don’t worry, Casey,’ the head reassured me. ‘If what your report suggests is true, I suspect the last thing the father’s going to do is play into our hands.’
‘I agree,’ said Gary. ‘If he has been hurting him I’d say keeping him off school will be more about having those bruises heal before he lets us near him, wouldn’t you?’
I saw his point but I was still worried that I’d precipitated something, even though, in walking Nathan home, I’d given him the opportunity to voice something that he might not have found the courage to in school. And when the end of the day came around, I was even more dismayed to take a call from the social worker who’d apparently seen my report.
His name was Martin and he’d had dealings with the family for some time, and was keen, it seemed, to reassure me that all was well.
‘I need to explain a couple of things,’ he said, having introduced both himself and his credentials. ‘And they are that, first of all, I don’t believe that Nathan has any psychological problems really. In fact, we believe that he is attention seeking, as does his stepfather.’
I took this on board, resisting the urge to ask him if he’d had sight of the overdue psychologist’s report. My guess was not, since I hadn’t seen it yet myself and it had been the primary school rather than social services that had ordered it.
‘Secondly,’ he went on, ‘we don’t believe Nathan’s telling the truth about his dad hurting him. He’s a clumsy child – I’ve witnessed this myself when I’ve visited the family. You might well have noticed that yourself.’
I told him I hadn’t, but, in fairness, I’d not known Nathan long. It wasn’t my place to presume I knew more than he did, after all. ‘So what are your thoughts?’ I asked, braced for the sort of response that what he’d told me already seemed to be hinting at.
‘We think the family have poor social skills, basically,’ he said, ‘and that because neither parent works, they do live very poorly. They’re not the brightest of people, clearly, but we feel they’re essentially coping – doing their best in unfortunate circumstances. So, as I’m sure you’d agree, we really don’t want to go wellying in, guns blazing, though if you feel strongly that we need to have some continued input in this situation, then we’ll obviously do so,’ he finished.
Which left me at something of a loss. Of course no one wanted social services ‘wellying in’, as he put it, making pariahs of poor, innocent parents. But something stuck in my craw. If they weren’t earning then why weren’t they ever at home? And another thing – weren’t there grounds for accepting Nathan’s words as truth? It was hardly as if he’d been eager to broadcast it to the world, was it? He hadn’t told me it at all – that had been Jenny.
But perhaps that would be lost on the man I was currently speaking to. He clearly had his own views on the subject. I took a deep breath.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I would like social services to take some action, because though I obviously respect your views, I don’t share them. I have a strong gut instinct that something isn’t right here. I’ll obviously continue to work with Nathan and support him while in school, but yes, I’d be grateful,’ I said again, ‘if you could as well.’
He promised he would, but his tone seemed to suggest differently, and when I put down the phone I realised my hands were shaking.
By the time I reached the staff room, in search of caffeine and solace, my dismay had worked itself up into anger. Fortunately, Julia Styles, the special needs co-ordinator, was one of my soulmates at work and as she was already in there I cornered her and offloaded all my angst.
When I finished she was smiling sympathetically. ‘You remind me of a little pit bull,’ she observed. ‘You get your teeth into something and you won’t let go, come hell or high water.’ Her expression changed then. ‘But, you know, Casey, all you can really do is your job. Be there for Nathan, report any single thing that makes you uneasy and trust that, ultimately, social services will also do theirs.’
‘But what if they don’t?’ I asked. ‘What if they’re not seeing what I see?’
Julia shrugged. ‘Then the same still applies, Casey. Report, be observant and keep passing it on. At least then, whatever happens, no one’s going to be able to accuse you of not doing your job.’
Which was a fair point and, no, I couldn’t do social services’ job for them – she was right. All I could really do was trust in the system and hope that trust wasn’t misplaced.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I feel better already. Well, sort of. I’m sure if I head home and take my frustrations out on Mike, I’ll feel 100 per cent better by the morning.’
She laughed. ‘Exactly. What else are husbands for?’
In some ways, the business with Nathan couldn’t have come at a better time. Or a worse one, depending on your viewpoint. Either way, by the time he returned to school on the Wednesday, I was busy setting up shop in another part of the school and, apart from an early visit to pick up all my files, didn’t go down to the Unit again all day.
With the need for behaviour-management support strategies having grown since I’d joined the school (which, I suspected, along with others, was mostly due to my post having been created), it had recently been decided that, now I’d gained my level three counselling qualification, Jim should be mostly classroom based and I should be promoted to ‘office-occupying’ status. The plan was that, with an office and some private space, I could spend time supporting the kids that most needed intense one-on-one therapy, without the distraction of other kids and their own problems. It also meant that all the kids who had been referred to the Unit could have the opportunity to spend time with me in private.
Though I’d still be spending time doing group work within the behaviour unit itself, I would now be based in my new office, so Wednesday was mostly given over to customising it, Casey style – i.e. making it look as unlike an office as possible. I spent the whole day setting up new files and sorting out the old ones, as well as having a proper sort-out of the variety of games, art materials and work sheets I’d amassed over the past year, and had trolleyed over.
I was also keen to extend my personalisation by getting some artwork up on the walls, but thought I’d wait and get the children themselves to design and make some for me. That way they would soon feel some ownership of the room and it would help them to settle into the new environment better.
I spent practically all of the next day on it too – walking around the school, tracking down all of my past and current students, and letting them know where my new room was. Some of these were regulars, and some were kids I’d not seen in a while, but one thing I’d learned very quickly since I’d joined the school was that, for some kids, knowing where I could be found was key; it was like a security blanket for them to know where they could find me.
This wasn’t just an assumption on my part, either. Some of the kids I’d spent time with even kept copies of my timetable in their school bags so that they knew my exact whereabouts at any time. And I respected this. So, if I had to make unexpected location changes, I would always leave a note pinned to my door detailing where I could be found.
Which was no hardship, even though, early on, I knew my attention to these sorts of details marked me out as perhaps a little over-zealous. Which was fair enough, I supposed, because I felt very zealous. The time might one day come when I grew a touch more cynical and a bit less soft about the kids, but I couldn’t see that happening anytime soon.
It was Thursday afternoon, then, before I next saw Nathan. Having caught up with my move via Jim down in the Unit, he came rushing in during afternoon break, in a flurry of excitement. ‘Ooh, Miss, this is lovely!’ he gushed, running around like a wild child, touching everything in sight and stroking all the surfaces. ‘I can’t wait till it’s my turn to come see you in here. When is it my turn? Will it be soon?’
‘It will,’ I said, consulting a timetable of which I already knew most of the contents. ‘I’ll be back teaching in the Unit twice next week anyway, but, yes, you’re with me tomorrow afternoon, sweetie. And every Friday afternoon from then on.’
He clapped his hands together in delight. ‘Oh, I can’t wait! Do you want me to do you a picture for your wall? It’s very bare, Miss.’
‘You read my mind, Nathan,’ I told him. ‘I’d like that very much.’
He smiled one of his funny little smiles then and looked at me from under his black lashes. ‘And I might even get Jenny to do one for you too.’
In the event, it was early on the Friday morning that I next saw Nathan. He was waiting outside my office for me, sitting cross-legged in front of the door.
‘You’re early,’ I called as he pulled himself to his feet and yanked at trousers that were already in conversation with his lower shins.
‘I thought I’d come early in case you had any jobs that needed doing,’ he explained. ‘I’m good at jobs, aren’t I?’
I unlocked the door and agreed that he was. Not that I could think of one on the spur of the moment. ‘Give me a minute,’ I told him, parking my handbag and coat. ‘I’m sure I will, but in the meantime why don’t you sit and chat to me instead?’
‘Actually,’ he said, as if he’d been waiting for just such an invitation, ‘I have something to tell you, Miss. A secret.’
My ears pricked up instantly. Though so did my training. ‘Nathan,’ I told him, ‘we don’t have secrets here, remember? You can tell me anything you like but I can’t promise to keep it a secret, remember?’
‘Okay,’ he conceded, ‘but I’m going to tell you anyway, because it’s so lovely.’
‘Is it, now?’
‘It is,’ he said. ‘I had sex with my girlfriend last night and it was nice, Miss.’ He leaned towards me. ‘We did porn.’
For all his colourful language in the Unit from time to time, this one brought me up rather short. The child was 11, after all. ‘Nathan,’ I scolded gently, ‘I don’t think you should be saying things like that unless they’re true. Is that Nathan talking?’ I added, wondering if we’d strayed into a persona.
‘Yes, it is,’ he said, nodding. ‘It’s always Nathan now. I can’t use my other people any more, Miss, because my daddy’ll get mad with me – like, really mad. But if you don’t believe me,’ he went on chattily, ‘I can tell you what I did. I stuck my thingy in her thing and we jumped up and down.’
‘You did?’ I asked.
‘I really did,’ he said. ‘So there!’
Somewhat uncomfortable at this revelation, not to mention a little stumped at what to do with it, I repeated that he shouldn’t be talking like that unless he was telling the honest truth.
‘I am telling the bloody truth!’ he said dramatically, ‘I know what porn is, Miss. It’s when a boy does it with lots of different people and nobody tells anyone. I got another secret as well.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m partly gay, Miss. I just found out. I found out because me and William did it together yesterday, in the toilets. We touched willies together and kissed and everything, Miss. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
There was a knock on the open door then – the school secretary dropping off some paperwork – and Nathan’s hand flew to his mouth. She’d not heard anything, I was sure, though she’d heard enough in her working life not to have batted an eyelid anyway, but it signalled the end of Nathan’s confessional session, because he jumped up then and told me he had to be going and that he’d see me that afternoon as planned.
I decided I’d investigate further. I knew William was a friend of Nathan’s so it would be sensible to alert their head of year in any case; even if he didn’t know anything, he could obviously keep an ear out. I’d also make a copy for Gary in child protection, as it would be him who’d pass it on to social services.
And was Martin right after all? Did Nathan simply have an overactive imagination? Or was there more to it? Nathan had spouted it all out to me so matter of factly that he might as well have been telling me that he had just learned how to ride a bike! Curiouser and curiouser, and not in a good way.
It didn’t take me long to do the report, and I duly printed two copies and took them to both of my colleagues’ in-trays. When I returned to my office, via a coffee stop, and found Gary there waiting for me, my first thought – and comment – was, ‘That was quick!’
‘I must have missed you by moments,’ he said, following me inside and shutting the door. ‘And I’m afraid that at least some of this is true.’
I groaned, but, at the same time, felt a small spark of vindication. ‘It is?’
‘We had William’s mother here last night. It seems that something did happen in the toilets yesterday and, according to William, Nathan initiated it. Forced himself on Will, by all accounts – the boy’s apparently quite traumatised. He was going to keep it to himself, though, by all accounts, but apparently Nathan was keen to tell pretty much anyone in earshot that Will and he had sex and loved each other.’ He sighed a weary sigh. ‘So, of course, everyone began calling Will names, so he told his mum and – well, you can imagine. She’s not very happy.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said. ‘You know, we really need that report from the psychologist. In fact, maybe he needs a formal re-assessment anyway. It’s already clear that Nathan isn’t able to be mainstreamed without full-time supervision, and this just adds weight to that, doesn’t it? And you know, Gary, I still think that there are underlying factors at home. I just don’t accept this “peculiar child” tag he seems to have been saddled with.’
Gary concluded that – thankfully – he was inclined to agree with me and would address the matter with the educational psychologist at once. ‘I’ll put another child protection referral through,’ he added. ‘Given the explicit nature of Nathan’s revelations, they can hardly not act, at least in some way. Fingers crossed.’
‘Duly crossed,’ I said. ‘And toes, too, for good measure.’
That afternoon, as planned, Nathan attended his appointment with me. The buzz phrase at the time was ‘life space interviews’, where I would simply encourage a child to talk about anything and not interfere with their flow. I would use prompt words to keep them on track if it helped achieve that, but in the main it was all about active listening and the making of (very) discreet notes.
I was determined to make the most of this opportunity with Nathan, who breezed in as usual, thankfully oblivious to the waves he’d set rolling, and came around the back of my desk to stand beside me.
‘It’s good to see you, Miss,’ he said, as if we’d been parted for many months. ‘Do you bring your make-up to school? I really love your lip gloss.’
‘No, sweetie,’ I said, ‘I put it on in the morning and just hope that it lasts.’
‘And does it?’ he asked, scrutinising me. ‘Right till bedtime?’
I told him no lip gloss in the world would last through fish and chips and mushy peas, upon which he rolled his eyes and flapped a wrist. ‘Could you bring it next time, Miss, maybe, and I’ll bring mine too? Then we could have a girlie time putting make-up on, couldn’t we?’
I was finding it difficult to know where to go with him in this mode and wished I knew more about the reasons why children adopted such mysterious ways. In the meantime, though, I’d just have to apply common sense. ‘Boys don’t really wear make-up, do they, Nathan? Just girls and ladies, mostly. Anyway, you look very nice without it.’
He drew a hand across one of his eyebrows to tame a stray curl. ‘Do you know,’ he said suddenly, ‘that we have a parrot in our house? It talks to me all the time; it’s so funny.’
At last, I thought, a safer subject, even if I wasn’t quite sure I believed him. ‘I used to have a parrot that talked, too,’ I told him. ‘What do you call yours?’
‘It’s called Peter,’ he said, moving around to the other side of my desk and pulling out the chair. ‘And it says “Get the lazy fucker out of bed” and “Fuck off to school” and “Don’t dare talk to that Mrs Watson”.’
He hadn’t sat down and as I looked at him I watched his expression change. He was staring at me intently now. ‘Why do you think your parrot says that?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, Miss,’ he said. ‘And do you know what else he says?’
I shook my head.
‘He says “And don’t fucking tell social services that you and your dad sleep on a mattress in your bedroom”.’
Nathan’s expression was now mask-like – as if he really was just parroting words at me. It was so strange and unsettling that it made me shudder.
‘And do you and your dad share a mattress?’ I asked him, conscious that, as he had already told me this, I wasn’t leading him.
He looked me in the eye but his lips didn’t move. Instead he shrugged, then said, ‘Miss, can I go and read in the Unit now? I’m tired. I don’t really want to chat anymore.’
I hesitated, wondering what I could usefully say next, but in the end, unable to come up with anything that wouldn’t feel as if I was pressing him, I let him go. I then pulled my chair under my desk, ready to write up yet another report, but thought better of it. Perhaps I’d just go straight to Gary, or, better still, speak to Martin in social services myself.
Martin was, once again, lightly irritable. Well, at least, that was how his voice sounded when I outlined Nathan’s latest comments and he explained that he had already visited the family – by appointment – and had concluded that there was nothing amiss.
I told him again that I disagreed; that I felt Nathan was suffering some form of abuse; that I was no psychologist but that it seemed to me he’d developed these different personas as a way to both distance himself from the trauma of what was happening and to enable him to tell someone about it.
In return, I was told – and in no uncertain terms – that the situation had been dealt with; that they were a family that were doing their level best to cope with a child with behavioural problems – one who he understood was about to be reassessed through the school. Perhaps then we’d all be in a better position to help him.
I went back to my office and typed up my report. I wasn’t sure quite what else I could do. ‘Mattress,’ I typed. The word lingered.
I had lots of kids to help support and an invariably full timetable, so I didn’t see or hear anything of Nathan till the following week, when he arrived for our session with a big grin on his face, having got through the intervening time without causing any trouble.
‘No fights,’ he said proudly, ‘and no bad language, neither. So, Miss, do I get a reward now?’
I told him he did – I’d already had the heads-up from Jim – and presented him with a big cardboard box full of art stuff, explaining that his treat would be to make a big castle and that on each week that he was good and caused no one any trouble, we would make characters to live in it – princes and princesses and so on.
He was soon sprawled on the floor, planning his model, happy enough to lie there and draw while I got on with some paperwork. It went like this sometimes; kids just needed space and time out from peers. It was at these times when they were often most inclined to open up to me.
Nathan was no exception. After about 20 minutes, he looked up and casually told me that he was doing his castle to be like ‘the place me and Jodie sometimes go to’.
I’d not heard the name – not in connection with Nathan. ‘Jodie?’ I asked. ‘Is she your friend?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. We go to a flat to see this man and his dog, and he showed me and her how to do sex.’
I placed my pen down but didn’t turn to look at him. ‘Oh,’ I said mildly. ‘And this is a real flat, is it, Nathan? Not part of your castle story? I mean, it’s okay if it is. I just wondered.’
‘No, I swear, Miss,’ he said. ‘His name is Michael an’ he stinks. But it’s fine because he gives me and Jodie money and sweets if we go there and do stuff.’
Now I turned to look at him. ‘What stuff do you do?’ I asked evenly, aware that I was not allowed to ask leading questions.
He glanced at me. ‘I can’t say, because you always tell and I get done for it. It’s okay, though, Miss,’ he added. ‘I was just saying.’
And that was that. Nathan went back to drawing his castle ramparts and, with my professional code meaning it would be inappropriate to press him, I went back to my paperwork.
By now, my file on Nathan was beginning to read like a horror story, but once he’d gone – without further mention of flats or men called Michael – I dutifully wrote up the details of our session and got it into Gary’s in-tray before the day was out. Of Gary himself there was no sign, sadly – he was out of school, at a meeting, but at least I could start my weekend secure in the knowledge that I’d done my part, even if nothing happened till Monday.
But when Monday came, it seemed something further had happened, as explained excitably by Nathan himself. He had obviously been waiting for me to arrive for some time, because he was fit to bursting with the need to share his news.
‘Miss, Miss!’ he enthused as soon as he saw me.
‘Hi, babes,’ I said, intrigued. ‘What brings you here, then? You look like a cat on a hot tin roof!’
I passed him my key so he could open the door for me, struggling as I was beneath an armload of books. ‘Miss, guess what happened this morning?’ he said as he unlocked the door. ‘I was just going up the road from my house on my way to school and I saw a police car, and so I stopped and then it stopped at my house, so I stood and watched and the policeman went up to my front door and knocked on it, an’ my dad answered and the policeman asked if he could talk to me – I even heard him, Miss! And my dad said that I wasn’t there, but he could see me, Miss – he could see me! I was stood right there up the road but my dad said I’d gone to school!’
‘So what did you do?’ I asked, while Nathan got his breath back.
‘I just ran off and came to school. I’m scared of the police, Miss. My dad says they lock people up all the time. Even good boys and good dads, sometimes.’
Not knowing what had gone on, I sent Nathan off to the Unit when the bell sounded, and I went up to see if I could find Gary. His door was open and he was on the phone but as soon as he saw me he gestured that I should come in and wait.
‘That was the police,’ he said, replacing the handset. ‘They’re on their way. And yes,’ he said, correctly interpreting my expression, ‘I did get the report you left for me on Friday. So I called the emergency duty team at social services, as I couldn’t get through to Martin, and they told me to report the disclosure to the police.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ I said.
‘Well, yes, it is, if we can make it happen. They’re on their way now. Coming up to talk to Nathan about this man he called Michael – he was already on his way here when they called at home, apparently. Have you seen him yet?’
I explained that I had, and what he’d told me. Gary nodded. ‘That figures. We’ve just been saying as much ourselves. The father is, potentially, the fly in the ointment. We don’t know what he knows or doesn’t know about this character, but they’re worried that if he is involved, he’ll try to get to Nathan before they do.’
‘What about the mother?’ I asked. ‘Nathan never talks about his mother. Do you know anything more about her?’
‘Only that she’s going to be no help to anyone. She has severe learning difficulties and, according to Nathan’s old primary school, she’s barely ever been a presence. Hardly in the house at all, apparently. Just wanders around the town centre all day and often doesn’t go home till Nathan is already in bed. She did turn up at parents’ evenings, occasionally, which is something, but rarely, if ever, spoke – left all that to her husband.’
I was just thinking what a sad and depressing state of affairs it all was when, as if on cue, my mobile phone rang. It was the school office to say that Mr Greaves was on his way to the school to collect Nathan because he had a doctor’s appointment.
I told the secretary I’d bring him down and Gary and I both rolled our eyes. It seemed to be playing out exactly as we’d expected.
‘I’ll stall him,’ Gary said. ‘Keep him talking for as long as possible. But why don’t you take Nathan up for a trip to the library anyway. And take your time about it. It’s a bit of a way to get back from; know what I mean?’
It was a little unorthodox, admittedly. But, then, allegations of abuse required decisive action and, though we had no right to stop Nathan’s father from collecting him, if Nathan wasn’t brought down till the police had arrived too, we could perhaps achieve more and, crucially, achieve it quicker. Who knew, after all, now he was aware we might be onto him, whether Nathan’s father would bring him back to school at all?
It wasn’t to be, though. I hurried back to the Unit, while Gary headed down to reception, and though our little ruse did the trick in that the police arrived shortly after – and before Nathan’s father showed up – it proved to be pointless in any case.
Yes, we managed to get him in a room with the police officer, but that was all. As soon as Nathan saw the uniform, he clammed up completely, apart from saying to me, in a voice that was 100 per cent Nathan, ‘I’m not telling nothing, Miss. I told you.’
Where was Jenny when we needed her? I thought, as I sat there, unable to do anything, while Nathan remained stiff-lipped and terrified – he wouldn’t even speak to confirm his name. I felt utterly frustrated, but I knew that Nathan would have to speak freely and without coercion, otherwise nothing he said could be used anyway.
Mr Greaves arrived shortly after, angry to see the police there and generally stroppy, but without evidence or testimony from Nathan himself, we could do nothing. And as I took Nathan to him I felt again like I was delivering a lamb to the slaughter, especially when Mr Greaves grinned at me.
He spoke to me as well, just as he took Nathan’s hand. ‘Never mind, Mrs Watson,’ he said. ‘Better luck next time.’
It was in the nature of my job that children came, we did what we could with them and then they moved on with their lives. Sometimes they moved back into mainstream classes – our best-case scenario – and sometimes they moved on in other positive ways. To new homes and new schools or to other, specialist ones locally; ones better suited, where appropriate, to their needs. Sometimes – the worst-case scenario – they did neither. They just disappeared – were excluded, or were taken out of school – leaving us frustrated and wondering if we could have done anything differently to achieve a more positive outcome.
This looked like being one of the latter. Nathan didn’t appear in school for the rest of the week and a phone call eventually established that he was ‘ill’. It wasn’t until the following week that the headmaster called me and Gary into his office, where he let us know that Nathan’s father was removing him from school, on the grounds that we weren’t meeting his needs at the moment and that they were looking into ‘other options’ for him.
‘Can he do that?’ I asked him. ‘Surely the truancy officer would step in, wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes, in theory, in time,’ he said, ‘but, as you know, Casey, these things take time.’ We all exchanged looks. He didn’t need to say more. We all knew what we thought was the problem with Nathan, but with him apparently no longer a pupil, there was nothing we could do to help him. It was now going to be in the hands of social services.
‘So that’s it?’ I asked, experiencing a leaden, sinking feeling that would come to be so familiar in the following months and years. It felt all wrong, somehow, to just walk away and try to forget him.
‘That’s it,’ the head agreed. ‘I’m sorry, Casey, but that’s the nature of the beast, sadly. We can only do what we can do during the time we can be of influence. That’s the bottom line. You both did your best.’
‘We can only do what we can do during the time we can be of influence.’ Those words stayed with me all day.
And all evening, and the next day and the next evening too. So much so that even Mike had to start some counselling training – with me as his very first patient. ‘The headmaster’s right,’ he said. ‘There’s only so much you can do, and you did it. Try to be positive. Social services are aware of the allegations, and even if you can’t do anything more to help the boy, they can. They won’t have just dropped it, love; that his father’s taken him out of the school so suddenly will have rung alarm bells for them too, don’t forget.’
But I couldn’t let it go and, at the end of the following week, I couldn’t resist making a very slight detour on my journey home. I knew I shouldn’t – I could hear Mike’s voice ticking me off even as I walked – but I knew I wouldn’t rest till I’d at least taken a look, even if I had no idea what I’d do when I got there.
I needn’t have worried. I didn’t even need to think. Because I’d only just started walking up the front-garden path when a voice behind me made me stop and turn around.
It was a woman’s voice, and when I turned it was to see a lady who looked in her sixties, perhaps, carrying a plastic carrier bag which she was lobbing into a wheelie bin. ‘There’s no one in, love,’ she said, nodding her head towards the house. ‘I just saw him off up the road not ten minutes ago.’
‘Nathan?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Their lad?’ She shook her head. ‘No, love. He’s run off. I meant his dad.’
‘Run off?’ I said, startled at her matter-of-fact manner.
‘So I’ve heard. So his father says, anyway. Run off to some auntie or other somewhere.’ She flipped the wheelie-bin lid down. ‘Not surprised,’ she added drily. ‘Funny kid, that one. Weird boy.’
She ambled back off up her path then. I hurried home.
This development did nothing to quell my conviction that Nathan could, and probably would, now slip through the net. Was it true, even, what I’d been told? I wondered. A big part of me doubted it. Could it not just be some line the father was spinning to get people off his case? And even if it was true, what would happen about following up on his disclosures? Would that happen? In theory, it should, but what if he’d left the area altogether? If that were the case, he would presumably come under the jurisdiction of a completely different social services office. How efficient were one lot of social services at communicating with another? I didn’t know, but I didn’t feel very positive. I had been around the block too many times.
So when a note from the head arrived in my pigeonhole a couple of days later, I read it with interest but not optimism. ‘Could you pop in and see me later? News on Nathan Greaves’ was all it said, and though I was keen to hear the news, I didn’t expect it to be good.
But, in fact, it was the best news. Well, under the circumstances, at least the most encouraging. ‘He’s been temporarily taken into care,’ the headmaster told me, without preamble. ‘When they began investigating his disclosures to you regarding the Michael character, it came to light that he lived just down the road and is a convicted paedophile. Out now, but obviously breaking the terms of his discharge. So we have some progress.’
‘Oh, poor Nathan …’ I murmured. ‘But progress is good.’
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘as I was just saying to Gary here, the other reason I asked you to pop up was to see what your timetable is like. As the teacher who’s spent most time with Nathan over the past couple of months, his social worker wondered if you’d be able to spare a couple of hours this week to attend a pre-placement meeting with the pair of foster carers they’ve found for him. He’s already with them, but Nathan’s social worker felt it would be useful for you to see them – to give them some insight into his somewhat complex emotional needs.’
‘How about tomorrow?’ I said.
Nathan was being Jenny when I visited. He squealed with delight when he saw me, throwing his skinny arms around me and telling me, in his high-pitched Jenny voice, how much he had missed me. ‘We’re making Christmas decorations, Miss,’ he said excitedly, ‘and I shall make one for you specially. You can put it in your posh office then, can’t you?’
His foster mum, a lovely middle-aged lady called Caroline, agreed that they’d do exactly that and, having promised him that they’d go up to school and deliver it personally, told him that we needed to have a chat.
Nathan skipped off without argument and we spent a productive 20 minutes comparing notes about her singular little charge, and the various challenges he might bring in the time he was with her while social services waited on the psychologist’s assessment and decided what best to do in the short term.
‘I’m going to miss him,’ I said. ‘I’ve been so anxious about what might have happened to him. I still am. It’s that horrible not-knowing thing, isn’t it?’
She smiled. ‘I’ve racked up a fair few of those over the years, believe me, Casey. Sometimes it works out fine, and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes you know that, even though you can hardly bear to think about it, they will, in the end, go back to the same sort of lives they had before – and, in some cases, even do it willingly.’
I thought about Nathan going home and nothing having changed. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ I said. ‘Not once they’ve got under your skin and you’ve started fretting about them. I’d be a nervous wreck, I think.’
But the foster mum shook her head. ‘It doesn’t get any easier,’ she admitted. ‘Some kids, especially the longer-term ones, you just can’t help but fall in love with them. Then it’s so hard – it breaks your heart. But I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve done all sorts of jobs over the years, but as soon as I started this one, I just knew. I can’t imagine doing anything else now,’ she said, ‘no matter how challenging the child. You can’t change the world – sometimes you feel you’ve hardly changed a thing, to be honest – but, well, if you can do something, that’s the best feeling in the world, believe me.’ She grinned. ‘You should try it yourself sometime.’
I left the foster mum’s house – and Nathan – with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I knew I would continue to worry about what might happen to him, but on the other, I felt much lighter of heart. As the head had said, you could only do what you could do while you were of influence; a feeling that seemed to be shared by the lovely lady I’d just been chatting to.
Though, as for trying if for myself, that was a whole other matter. Hmm, I thought, as I climbed into my car, maybe not …