shuffled into the kitchen just as I was dishing up two bowls of pasta. ‘So, after lunch, love,’ I told him as I set them on the table, ‘I’d like you to get dressed, as I said earlier, because the two of us are going out. Remember?’
He slid into his seat and picked his fork up, his gaze flickering intermittently towards me. Though it was almost impossible to catch his eye for any length of time and I wondered if there had been discussions about autism in his records. Struggling to make eye contact was common for kids on the spectrum.
‘Going where?’ he asked. ‘It might be somewhere I don’t want to go.’
‘To pick up a prescription for your pills,’ I said. ‘And then …’ I shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s a beautiful day. Perhaps the park?’
‘But I feel sick,’ he said immediately. The response seemed automatic. And this despite the speed with which he was shovelling pasta into his mouth. ‘So I can’t go out. It’ll make me feel sicker.’
I sat and watched him eat, waiting for him to recognise the absurdity of what he was saying. But he didn’t – or didn’t appear to. He just polished the lot off. All but licked the bowl out, in fact. ‘What?’ he said, as he raised his head finally and caught me smiling at him.
‘Enjoy that?’ I asked him mildly, nodding my head towards the empty bowl, and inviting him to get the point I was making.
But bright though he obviously was, he didn’t. But perhaps that was intentional. I stood up and reached across for his bowl. ‘Half an hour.’ I told him. ‘Then it’s bath, dress and out, okay?’
He pushed his chair back, rolled his eyes at me and headed back upstairs. I didn’t push it, but I did need to decide how to play it. Stern adult mode? Pleading mode? Negotiation-for-a-reward mode? I had a selection of ways to approach the problem. I just had to decide which one to try.
Because of his many problems – both behavioural and medical – Miller was under a consultant who specialised in sleep disorders, which meant that though I knew my GP would be happy to take him as a patient, he would be unable to prescribe his current medication without the surgery first contacting the doctor in question and him confirming that it was okay to do so. In the longer term I’d doubtless be taking Miller in to see him, but, for the moment, it was more a case of all the boxes being ticked so that I could have a new supply of the apparently precious pills – even though they seemed to be doing precisely nothing.
I’d just finished speaking to the surgery, who’d confirmed the fax had come through okay, when my mobile trilled again. It was Libby Moran.
Finally.
‘So, how’s the little monkey been, then?’ she chirruped, putting the lie to what I’d seen with my own eyes when they’d arrived: that she didn’t see him as a little monkey at all.
There was no point in being anything other than frank. ‘Well, to be perfectly honest, I’m struggling to work out how best to look after him,’ I told her. ‘I know so little about him, and nothing else seems to be forthcoming, either. It’s like I’m trying to feel my way in the dark. Plus, right now, I can’t even get out of the house.’
‘I know, I know,’ Libby replied in what I imagined was meant to be a soothing tone. ‘That’s precisely why I’m phoning you. To check how things are going, but also to tell you that I’m about to send you an email with some attachments. It’s mostly bits and bobs of things I’ve managed to get hold of, but I wanted to highlight a couple of things before they land in your inbox, because I feel they need a bit of clarification.’
This was an oddity. Wouldn’t the record for Miller speak for itself? Why would his official history need clarification? If it did – and she clearly thought so – why not just amend the record before sending? That said, I could probably answer my own question. Because experience had long taught me that ‘facts’, taken out of context, could be misread. Perhaps that was the case here; perhaps she’d done some digging and decided time was of the essence. Better to put me in the picture first, and amend the record later.
‘What sorts of things?’ I asked her.
‘Just a couple of things I wanted to flag up, really,’ she said. She was obviously in her office. I could hear paper being moved around, the clack and clatter of people typing. Other people. What I wouldn’t give for spending time with some right now. ‘Firstly,’ she went on, ‘the report from a particular foster carer, a Mrs Lyndsay Taylor. She tells of an incident – a really horrible incident actually – where Miller has killed a pet rabbit with a rake …’
Oh, great. ‘Libby,’ I interrupted. ‘How old was he when he did this?’
‘He was nine,’ she said. ‘But the thing is, the report just states exactly that, that the poor boy killed a family pet, and how he did it, but after double checking this morning, I found that the full story wasn’t there. I tracked Mrs Taylor down and she admitted that Miller had already been bitten twice by the rabbit. And on that particular day, he’d unlatched the cage and it had leapt out, scaring him half to death. He’d snatched the rake up in fear – she’s sure on this point – and started to swing it. And unfortunately, he hit the rabbit, and one of the spikey things went into it. And the injury was so severe that they had to put it down.’
Well, that makes it all so much better then, I thought. Not. But I also knew how instinctive it could be for damaged kids to lash out first and think later. It was often all they knew. It was exactly how it had been with Tyler, for that matter – pushed to the brink and grabbing the first thing to hand. So it was important not to judge without first establishing context. And a good sign that she’d taken the trouble to find out a little more about it. She was obviously conscientious and that could only be a good thing. ‘Right, I’ll bear that in mind when I read your email,’ I said. ‘And the other thing?’
‘Just about his past, and how he came into care. There’s a lot to read on that, and I really recommend that you do. It’s a shocking read – worse than I expected, to be honest – but it’s also really illuminating.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll look forward to getting my teeth into that.’ Which then struck me as not quite the best way to put it, given what she’d just told me about the rake. ‘What about school?’ I hurried on. ‘Any news there? I just think the sooner we get him back into education the better. The rate we’re going, I wouldn’t be surprised to go upstairs and find him gone – sucked into one of his flipping computer games.’
She laughed. ‘I hear what you’re saying. But, tentatively, that’s a yes. ELAC have apparently found a provision, and you should be getting a call later to let you know what’s been arranged. So that’s good news, isn’t it?’ she finished brightly. She sounded pleased with herself. And she’d a right to. Though I was still feeling a bit unsupported with my ‘little monkey’, at least we had some progress at last.
I thanked her, and clocking the time – it was fast becoming a habit – headed to the foot of the stairs to do battle. And in the real world as opposed to the virtual. But no sooner had I opened my mouth to give him his three-minute warning, than I heard, ‘Shit, shit, shit, SHIT!’ from upstairs.
‘Miller!’ I called up. ‘Please don’t use that language in this house. And you have three minutes left to play your game, so finish up, okay?’
I waited for a reply but all I could hear was the din from the PlayStation. I tried again, ‘Miller! Answer me, please!’
‘God!’
