A Dark Secret

‘I cannot thank you enough, Casey,’ she’d gushed. ‘I owe you. I owe you big time.’

‘You owe me absolutely nothing,’ I’d pointed out. And was just about to add that I was only doing my job when my internal censor (not always that reliable, to be honest) shut my mouth, because to do so would be to imply that she wasn’t. At least I didn’t doubt she’d have seen it that way.

Instead I burbled on about it being easier, since I didn’t have little ones to think about, but when I rang off the intensity of her emotion still dogged me. Just how much of a challenge was this little boy going to be? Surely a child of nine couldn’t be that much of a handful?

I said as much to Mike as he handed me my coffee and we prepared, as a family, to welcome our little visitor together – something that mattered at any time, obviously, but particularly with a child thought to be on the spectrum because change can be hard for such children. So to meet us as a single smiling unit – a wall of warmth and reassurance – would be helpful in managing his inevitable anxiety. Something now made much worse, of course, by this second, sudden, unexpected move and the confusion that would inevitably accompany it.

‘Well,’ Mike said, ‘like you always say yourself, love, it doesn’t matter where they come from, it only matters where they’re going. You already knowing Kelly and Steve shouldn’t really make a difference. And it sounds to me, given the situation with his own siblings, that it might not have been the best choice of family set-up.’ He raised a palm. ‘Though, yes, of course I know there probably wasn’t a choice.’

‘What will be, will be, I suppose,’ I said, automatically checking that the kettle was filled enough to make Christine a cup of tea when she arrived. It was scalding. Mike had obviously beaten me to it, bless him.

And it was only to be Christine, which was highly unusual. A child would usually arrive with their social worker, too. But it turned out that Sam didn’t even have a social worker. It had all happened so fast that the emergency duty team (EDT) had taken care of things, and apparently the only member of staff with space on his books – a Colin Sampson – was away on annual leave till the end of next week.

Colin would be assigned to Sam once he was back, at which point we’d all meet, but, in the meantime, if I had any sort of crisis I would have to call on the duty team. I mentally crossed my fingers that that wouldn’t come to pass. Now I’d agreed to take him on, doing my best ‘knightess on white charger’ impression, I would look pretty stupid if I was calling out the cavalry within the week.

More to the point, the poor lad must be traumatised enough.

‘Mum, I see him,’ Tyler said from his station by the window. ‘Aw, he’s dead tiny, he looks really cute. Not sure what he’s up to, exactly – he seems to be marching on the spot – but he definitely doesn’t look dangerous.’

I’d given Tyler the facts, of course. It was important that he knew what we were dealing with. And following the problems our last foster child, Miller, had caused him, I couldn’t blame him for checking Sam out. Things were okay now; on Miller’s respite visits they rubbed along just fine. But every new child was a journey into the unknown for Tyler too.

And he was right. At first sight, Sam did indeed look very cute. Almost angelic, in fact, with shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair, which hung straight down over his skinny shoulders. And, as Tyler had observed, he seemed to be marching on the spot, while Christine stood by, patiently watching, holding a small suitcase. We all watched him too, till they finally set off down our front path, and I went to the front door to let them in.

Sam was shiny as a pin – Kelly had obviously bought a selection of new clothes for him – and like many a child before him, standing on this very spot, looked every bit as anxious as I’d expected.

‘One hundred,’ he announced, talking to a spot just above his feet. ‘A one-hundred-step path. One hundred steps exactly.’ He then wiped his brow theatrically, and exhaled as if he’d just climbed a very big hill. He straightened the backpack on his shoulders, and tugged on Christine’s coat sleeve. ‘That’s a very long path, Mrs Bolton.’

Though I wasn’t sure what to make of this, that was par for the course. But Christine gave me a quick glance before smiling at him and nodding. ‘It certainly is, Sam, especially when we’ve had to do eighty-five of them on the spot. Sam has a bit of an obsession with the number one hundred, Casey,’ she explained. ‘It couldn’t have been the number five or six, could it, Sam?’

I saw the trace of a smile cross the boy’s elfin features. They’d obviously discussed this. And no doubt Christine would enlighten me later. In the meantime, it had broken the ice, and I laughed as I led them through to the dining area.

Mike was already setting down the teapot, Tyler pouring milk into a mug.

‘Alright, mate?’ he asked Sam. ‘I’m Tyler. Pleased to meet you. Want a drink and a biscuit?’

Sam’s gaze darted towards him, then away again. He shook his head.

‘He’s literally just had his tea,’ Christine explained.

‘Well, in that case,’ Ty continued, as per our usual plan, ‘do you want to come upstairs with me and see your bedroom?’

He held out a hand, and Sam eyed this too. Then, after checking wordlessly with Christine, who nodded an affirmative, began to shrug his backpack from his shoulders.

‘Could you look after my bag, please?’ he asked her politely. ‘It’s a Spider-Man backpack and it’s very, very precious, so you won’t let anyone near it, will you?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Christine assured him. ‘Though why don’t you take it with you? Find a safe place to put it in your new room?’

Sam stood and seemed to think, the bag gripped tightly in his tiny hands. He was extremely slight for nine. Malnourished? Possibly.

‘Am I definitely, like, staying then?’ he asked Christine, in a whisper.

‘Yes, love,’ she said gently. ‘You’re definitely staying. Remember? Like I told you? And I know you’re going to like it.’ She glanced at Tyler, then back at Sam. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Go up with Tyler. See your bedroom, eh?’

‘And mine too,’ Tyler added, extending his hand a little further. ‘I’ve got a PlayStation, and I might just have a Spider-Man game too.’

This seemed sufficient to seal the deal, and though the hand was ignored, Sam seemed happy enough – well, at least not unhappy – to follow Tyler off upstairs.

‘Damn,’ I said to Christine, once they were safely out of earshot. ‘Trust me to spurn Spider-Man for Roblox.’

‘Oh, I really wouldn’t worry. Kelly told me she only bought it for him a couple of days back. He didn’t choose it. The counting to one hundred, though’ – she nodded back towards the hallway – ‘that’s apparently quite a big thing with him. I have no idea why, or whether it has any significance, but apparently he does it all the time.’

Mike handed Christine her tea and we sat down around the table, so we could get all the paperwork done. Though in this case, there wasn’t a lot of it. No history to peruse, obviously, just the usual Placement Plan. Plus a couple of signatures to confirm we took responsibility for any medical issues. And that was pretty much that – no more paperwork than you’d expect buying a second-hand car. Sold as seen. Sign on the dotted line and the child is all yours.

Christine must have read my thoughts. ‘Here you go,’ she said, smiling grimly as she handed me our copy. ‘Far as I know, only one careful owner.’

Joking aside, this was a necessarily serious business. And as Christine began telling us what she did know, I had the usual sinking sense that I was being told an all-too familiar story.

The police had been called to the family home just over a week previously, after a neighbour had alerted them to screams and bangs coming from the house, and of furniture being thrown into the back garden. Upon arrival the police had quickly assessed the situation and, suspecting that the mother was under the influence of drugs, had called social services to attend.

‘So, the two younger siblings were apparently found hiding underneath a bed,’ Christine went on, ‘whereas Sam was found in the back garden, shaking and terrified inside a big dog cage.’

‘Ah, the barking and howling,’ Mike commented.

Christine nodded. ‘Exactly. In fact, if he hadn’t been, they could easily have missed him altogether. And the mother was in such a state – a psychotic state, they realised – that a doctor was immediately summoned as well. When he arrived she was sedated and sectioned under the Mental Health Act and, of course, the children were all placed in care. And with different foster carers, as I mentioned to you this morning, Casey, on account of the other two being so terrified of poor Sam.’

Mike flicked his gaze towards the ceiling. ‘As in this Sam? Who looks like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose? You’d never think it, would you?’

We agreed we wouldn’t. ‘Any more on why?’ I asked.

‘Not really,’ Christine said. ‘Early days yet, and I’m sure we’ll find out more, but one of the children apparently said he thought he was a dog. That he spent a lot of time living in the dog cage.’

‘What is a dog cage when it’s at home?’ Mike asked.

‘Well, like a kennel, I imagine,’ Christine said.

‘Or a crate, perhaps,’ I suggested. ‘You know, like in Marley & Me. Isn’t crate-training a thing? I’m sure I’ve heard of it.’

‘Probably,’ Christine said. ‘Though this one was definitely in the garden.’

‘What about the dog?’

‘No dog. They checked. No evidence of a pet either. They said it looked as though Sam spent a lot of time in there, though. It was decked out with blankets. Scraps of food. A few toys.’

‘And they were genuinely that scared of him?’

‘Apparently so.’

‘But, even given that, it’s still odd that their wishes were so readily taken on board, isn’t it? Hard enough to find one foster family at such short notice, let alone two.’

‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘but I think the neighbour’s comments were taken into account too. She told them Sam was practically feral – I know, you wouldn’t credit it, would you? – and that she’d seen him attack his siblings on more than one occasion.’

I couldn’t be shocked by what Christine was telling me because I’d heard him for myself when I was on the phone to Kelly. No, not the howling, but there was no question that he was out of control. But at the same time, could this really be the same boy? From what I’d seen with my own eyes, he’d seemed no more feral than I was. And I’d fostered near-feral children, so it wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen some.

Which meant nothing, of course; he’d been with Kelly for long enough to have been washed, scrubbed and polished. Except for one thing – it ramped up my compassion for the boy. It affected me deeply to think this little lad’s brother and sister wanted to be away from him in a completely different home. It meant that not only did Sam have the trauma of going into care to deal with (away from his mother, and everything familiar – however grim life might sound for him, it was the only one he knew), but he also had the knowledge that even his siblings didn’t want him. Enough to send anyone’s behaviour spiralling out of control.

Christine didn’t stay long. After a quick trip upstairs, to pop up Sam’s suitcase and say goodbye, she left us, promising to let us know as and when she found out any more – though that would obviously be unlikely to happen before Monday morning. In the meantime, it was really just a case of watch and wait. Though in the shorter term, just a case of settling him in and putting him to bed, which, surprisingly, proved as simple a task as it sounded. It had been gone seven when they’d arrived, Sam had already eaten, and after the best part of an hour playing on the PlayStation with Tyler, it seemed that he didn’t even need telling it was bedtime.

‘Am I allowed to go to bed yet?’ he asked when I checked on them.

‘Yes, of course, love,’ I told him. ‘Shall I help you with your things?’

‘I’m okay,’ he said, getting to his feet, as Tyler paused the game. ‘I’m nine now,’ he added. ‘I can do stuff for myself.’

There was no side to him. No attitude. And he didn’t seem to mind me watching as he trotted this room, unzipped his case and started rootling round for pyjamas. (That he’d have everything he needed wasn’t going to be an issue, as I knew Kelly would have diligently packed everything she’d thought he might.)

‘How about a glass of water?’ I suggested, once he’d finally found them.

‘I’m okay,’ he said, briefly meeting my gaze. ‘Night, night.’

My cue to go, then. So I did – only pointing out the bathroom, so he could clean his teeth. Which he did, albeit that I suspected this was a pretty recent ritual. I knew because I lingered with Tyler for a bit – duty done, he was getting ready to go out now – and heard Sam pad across to the bathroom minutes later. ‘Seriously?’ Tyler whispered to me. ‘Feral? If he’s supposed to be feral, what does that make the eleven-year-old me?’

‘Or the sixteen-year-old you, come to that,’ I shot back at him.

But he was right. Could this be the same boy? Because when I peeked in on him later, just before heading to bed myself, he was sleeping, and looked the absolute picture of innocence. I wondered, as I pulled the door to, when this other child might show his face, the one that everyone was afraid of, with the devilish nature, the spiteful attitude, the belief that he was canine. Was that child really somewhere within Sam’s cute, sweet, exterior?

But I’d been doing the job long enough to know appearances could be deceptive. That the answer was almost certainly ‘yes’. And that, despite my observations, that child would probably show up soon enough. As sure as night followed day.

I switched off the landing light, and tiptoed across to my own bedroom. Fingers crossed not quite as soon as that, though.

Chapter 3

There is a place between sleep and waking which, if you linger there long enough, makes you forget where you are, where you’ve been and how you got there – which is why, for a few moments the next morning, I was knocked completely off guard by the strange sounds assaulting my ears.

Mike, too, it seemed. ‘What the hell is that?’ he spluttered, as he twisted around to check the time. ‘God, it’s not even bloody six o’clock!’

It was an animal sound, so my subconscious automatically supplied the details. ‘Not those cats from next door, again,’ I mumbled blearily. ‘Honestly! You’d think she’d let them in in this weather.’

The noise continued, and, as it did so, I finally woke up properly, and realised that it was actually coming from inside our house. Which was when it hit me. Of course. We had a new child in. D’oh!

Comprehension having dawned, I sat up and shook Mike’s shoulder. ‘Listen!’ I said (as if he had a choice). ‘I think it’s Sam.’

Mike groaned, threw back the duvet and swung his legs out of bed. ‘I think you’re right, love. God, he’s howling, isn’t he? Just like they said. Better go and check on him.’

Gathering such senses as I could – early mornings, particularly in winter, were more Mike’s domain than mine – I got up too, grabbed my dressing gown and pulled back the curtains. It was still fully dark. Just the street lamps were burning, illuminating the silvery sheen the frost had painted on the path. Which made the mournful sound coming from across the landing even more so. And very eerie. Like a werewolf in a movie.

Mike was already coming back in again as I was coming out. ‘Very weird,’ he said. ‘It’s almost like he’s in some sort of trance. He’s just lying there in his bed. Not moving or anything – just eyes shut and howling. No response when I spoke to him. Come on,’ he beckoned. ‘Come and look.’

I followed Mike into Sam’s room, which was lit only by a night light, and where Sam, as Mike had said, was perfectly still in his bed. And I shuddered – were it not for the racket he was making, it was almost as if he was laid out at an undertaker’s, before a funeral, his hair spread across the pillow and his hands clasped on his chest.

‘Sam, love?’ I whispered. ‘It’s Casey. You okay, sweetie?’ Nothing. It was as if he didn’t even realise we were there.

I touched his hand, and felt the heat of his soft, living skin. ‘Sam, love?’ But again, there was no response – just the merest hint of movement beneath his eyelids. But he didn’t seemed at all agitated, and to intrude might distress him. Better, at least for now, to leave him to it, I decided.

I gently tugged on Mike’s forearm and we shuffled back outside again. ‘Let’s leave him be for a bit,’ I suggested. ‘I think he’s self-soothing. Probably his way of coping with waking up in yet another strange house.’

‘What an odd way to go about it. Still, you’re probably right. Let sleeping dogs lie, eh?’ He mouthed ‘boom-boom’ in the half-light. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Anyway, I’d better go and shower. You okay to make the coffee? I need to get a shift on. We’ve a big delivery due in at seven.’

These days, Mike pretty much ran the warehouse where he worked, which meant long hours, sometimes even on a Sunday, like today, and greater responsibility. And with senior management having always been so understanding about our fostering – not least because it sometimes meant him taking time off at short notice – he took those responsibilities very seriously. It was a point of principle that he was never, ever late.

So I rattled down the stairs, got the coffee on and generally gathered myself together, all the while listening to an almost unbroken soundtrack of those unmistakeable rising and falling ‘ah-oooo, ah-ooooooo’ sounds.

Though not particularly loud or urgent, it was a sound that went through you, but, at the same time, if it soothed him, then I was loath to intervene. After all, I reasoned, it would defeat the whole purpose if he wasn’t allowed to do what made him feel better. Even so, I gave myself a mental time limit. Once Mike had gone to work, I would go up again and see if I could rouse him.

Mike having left to do just that, I was just about to head up and do so when a very confused-looking Tyler appeared in the kitchen.

‘What’s going on up there?’ he asked, sleepily rubbing his eyes. ‘Have you been in and seen him? What on earth is he doing?’

‘Howling, love,’ I said as I finished off my coffee (and reflected that ‘howling, love’ was such an unlikely thing to find yourself saying if you weren’t in a horror film). ‘Apparently, he used to act like a dog to scare his younger brother and sister. But I think it’s more that he’s scared. And that he’s howling to soothe himself. We once looked after another little boy who had autism, and he used to flap his arms, a bit like a bird, when he was stressed or afraid of a situation.’

‘Sam’s autistic?’ Tyler asked. ‘Really? He doesn’t seem autistic.’

‘It’s a very broad spectrum, love,’ I explained. ‘Some signs are hardly noticeable and others a lot more so. Sam hasn’t been officially diagnosed but he must have displayed some of the signs for it to be mentioned in his file, but we’ll just have to wait and see. You never know, this howling might be the extent of it.’

Tyler shuffled across the kitchen to grab a box of cereal. As was often the case, now he’d started at college, he had a full schedule of Sunday-morning football to attend, and needed a suitably hearty breakfast. Though possibly a little earlier than he’d planned.

‘Shall I cook you something love?’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll see to it. You want me to make a bacon sarnie for you too? You need to deal with – ah. Hold up. I think he’s stopped finally.’

I listened. ‘Yes, you’re right. I think he has. I’ll nip up and see what’s happening. Oh, and double yes about that sandwich, with brown sauce and knobs on. Because I suspect this might just be the calm before the storm.’

I hurried back upstairs. ‘Morning, sweetie!’ I called out brightly after knocking and entering. ‘Would you like to come downstairs and have some breakfast with me and Tyler? I’ll pop some cartoons on for you while we get things ready, if you like.’

Sam was still lying on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. But he was aware of my presence now, because he immediately turned to look at me. He looked confused at first – not surprisingly – but then smiled and sat up, and swung his legs out of the bed.

It was an odd smile, however, that didn’t quite seem to reach his eyes, and I tried to remember where I’d seen that before. It hit me then that it had been Georgie, the autistic boy I’d just mentioned to Tyler. When I spoke to him, he’d often adopt that exact expression – as if he knew what a smile was, but didn’t really feel it. Just understood, or had been taught, when he was expected to produce one.

‘I like cartoons,’ Sam said. Then he pointed at his pyjamas, ‘Look, Mrs Bolton,’ he said. ‘See? These are cartoon pyjamas. Fireman Sam. The lady got them for me because I’m a Sam too. And I’m going be a fireman as well.’

I laughed and held out my hand. ‘Come on then, Fireman Sam. And Mrs Bolton – Christine – is the lady who brought you yesterday. My name is Casey, remember?’

Sam took my hand, which surprised me, and nodded. ‘Choo, choo! Casey Jones!’ he said, pulling on an invisible train whistle with his other hand. And this time his accompanying smile seemed more genuine. ‘I know that story, too. You know, you should be a train driver.’

I smiled back. This kid was certainly full of surprises. How on earth did he know about a TV show that pre-dated even me?

‘You know what?’ I said, as we walked, companionably hand-in-hand, down the stairs. ‘I would have loved to be a train driver. But I couldn’t get a job. I was too short to see over the engine.’

‘For real?’ he said, eyes wide.

‘Just kidding,’ I told him. ‘So. What would you like for breakfast? Cereal? Bacon sandwich? Boiled eggs and soldiers?’

‘Boiled eggs and soldiers?’

‘You mean you’ve never eaten soldiers?’

Sam shook his head. He looked flummoxed. ‘What, real soldiers?’

‘Yes, absolutely. But made of bread, so you can stick them in the egg. If you listen closely, you can hear them going “oi!”’

I studied Sam while Tyler and I made short work of our bacon sandwiches, and our little visitor wolfed down his eggs and soldiers. What a complicated little lad he was. And an immature one, as well – both physically and mentally. Though not immature in the pejorative sense of the word. I was just building a picture of a boy half his age. The precious backpack, the pyjamas and the talk of being a fireman – a fine ambition at any age, of course, but, in tandem with what I knew of his regular toddler-tantrum-like outbursts, I felt sure I was in the presence of arrested development, of a child who had probably missed many milestones. And conceivably, given the little I did know of his background, a fair bit of schooling. Possibly as a result of his autism or neglect, and perhaps both; a child who’d never heard of boiled eggs and soldiers.

But Sam had definitely heard of Lego. And once Tyler had left, and I got my enormous crate of bricks out, he fell upon it as if I’d handed him the keys to the proverbial sweetshop, having never in his life, he told me, wide-eyed and breathless, seen so much of it, in one place, all at once.

Let alone been allowed to play with it. So Lego it was, then, and since he didn’t want me to help him, I switched the telly to a daytime chat show (a rare, guilty pleasure), happy to just observe as he tipped the entire box onto the carpet and, once he’d gathered up and sorted what he needed into neat different-coloured piles, set about making ‘the biggest, bestest bridge ever’.

And after an hour during which he was completely absorbed, he had indeed built something pretty magnificent. Whatever problems there might be with his emotional and social development, his engineering skills, eye for detail and spatial awareness really were something to behold.