Just a Boy: An Inspiring and Heartwarming Short Story. Casey Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ turned around and was walking back to us, seemingly oblivious to what he had just done. But no longer. The man’s voice positively boomed across the lane.

      I watched Cameron’s face fall. ‘Oh, no!’ he said, obviously realising what must have happened. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ he added, turning back towards the man. ‘I had no idea. I thought you were the bin!’

      The man threw down the newspaper he had in his other hand and marched up to Cameron, his face reddening in anger. He grabbed Cameron’s arm. ‘Oh, so you’re a joker as well, are you, you little git?’

      Mike was suddenly there then, a reassuring presence. At six foot three, and given the expression on the man’s face, a very reassuring presence. Because he really looked like he was ready to punch Cameron.

      ‘Hey there,’ Mike said evenly. ‘Calm down, mate, okay? Whatever happened, it was obviously an accident.’

      ‘Accident?’ the man said. ‘This moron just threw a coke can at me!’

      ‘It was an accident!’ Cameron added quickly. His head was bobbing about and I could see he wasn’t sure where to rest his gaze now, as Mike and the man must be blurring together. ‘I’m really sorry. But I really did think you were the bin, honest. The way you were sitting, and …’

      ‘The way I was sitting?’ the man blustered. ‘Oh, that’s rich, that is, you little sh–’

      ‘Hey,’ said Mike again, positioning himself between both of them. ‘Calm down, will you, mate? He’s blind. Can’t you see that?’

      The man was so worked up that it took a couple of seconds for him to register, but when the penny dropped it really did drop. I finally allowed myself to unclench my hands and breathe out.

      ‘Oh,’ the man muttered, the fight slowly draining out of him, as he realised his mistake. But not completely. He still had a look of aggression about him. And he clearly had a tongue to match, too. ‘Well, you should keep him indoors, then,’ he barked, ‘if he can’t bloody see! Bloody menace! You should ****ing keep him in!’ And with that, he stomped back to his soggy paper, while I stood there, gobsmacked that he could be so cruel.

      Cameron was mortified. ‘I need to go and apologise again,’ he said to Mike as we ushered him away. ‘Was he very wet? I should offer to pay for his shirt to be cleaned, at the very least.’

      My heart went out to him. His lower lip was wobbling and I could see he was really shaken. As was I. That sort of aggression might be exciting on the telly, but in the real world it was very, very frightening.

      ‘Love, it was an accident,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘And you have already apologised. Come on, let’s get out of here,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and get some tea.’

      He didn’t seem convinced. ‘I thought he was the bin, I really did. It was the way he was sitting … I should really …’ He tailed off then and I could see he was struggling not to cry. I was just glad he couldn’t see what Mike and I could: the number of curious pairs of eyes that were on us. Some pitying, some just staring, as if Cameron was a freak show.

      I couldn’t wait to get out of there and, as we left, I glanced back towards the man. It was so obvious now how easy a mistake it had been to make. His shirt was almost the same red as the bowling booths themselves, and with the newspaper open in front of him … well, I could easily see how it might have happened. ‘Please don’t be upset,’ I said, squeezing Cameron’s arm. ‘He’s just a very rude man, so –’

      ‘So he’s lost any right to an apology, in my book,’ Mike finished. His expression was set and grim. ‘What a …’

      He just about managed to stop himself saying what he was thinking. Instead he mouthed it. And I heard it loud and clear.

      The incident at the bowling alley coloured the rest of the evening, with Cameron no longer the sunny lad who’d arrived the day before. He was quiet, and though we kept telling him to forget all about it, I could tell he was racked with mortification about what he’d done. He spoke to his granddad before bed, and while I was in the kitchen making drinks for us all, I could hear him telling him what a complete dork he’d been.

      ‘We shouldn’t have taken him,’ I said to Mike once we were tucked up under the duvet.

      ‘What?’ he said. ‘Casey, that’s just mad, that is, honestly. Whyever not? He obviously goes all the time.’ He grinned ruefully, recalling having been so roundly beaten. ‘So why on earth wouldn’t we have taken him?’

      ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I should have thought it through more. It’s not the bowling alley he’s used to going to, is it? So he didn’t know his way around. If he had it wouldn’t have happened.’

      ‘Nothing happened,’ Mike persisted. ‘That man was just a joke – anyone could see that. The whole thing was just a storm in a teacup.’

      ‘Trickle in a coke can,’ I corrected. But for all my jesting, I still felt guilty for having taken him, as the things that horrible man had said ran round and round my head.

      But I was to come down the following morning to an even greater shock. Waking early, after a broken night, to see that another glorious day had dawned, I was determined that Cameron should leave us on a high note rather than a low one. So, leaving everyone to enjoy lie-ins, I tiptoed across the landing with the idea of cooking up a huge full English breakfast, which I’d serve in the garden, on the patio table.

      Seeing Cameron’s bedroom door open, though, and his bed made and empty, I assumed he must have beaten me to it – very atypical for a fourteen-year-old boy, but then, Cameron wasn’t a very typical fourteen-year-old boy, was he? Perhaps he was busy ‘watching’ some TV. But when I got downstairs to find no sign of him there either, I was flummoxed. Where could he be?

      I ran back upstairs to double-check he wasn’t in the bathroom, even though I knew he wasn’t – I’d only passed it seconds earlier.

      ‘Mike,’ I hissed, shaking him awake. ‘Cameron’s disappeared! I can’t find him anywhere. Oh, God, do you think he’s run away?’

      Mike rubbed his eyes and sat up. ‘Run away?’ He looked amused. ‘Have you been at the gin, love? Why on earth would he do that? Don’t be silly.’

      ‘Honest, Mike. He is nowhere to be found. And the back door is on the latch, too. So where is he? Come on, get dressed. We have to go out and try and find him!’

      Mike duly pulled on trackie bottoms and trainers and followed me out into the street, blinking in the sunshine like an oversized frightened rabbit. We went all round the block and down several other streets, but he was nowhere to be found, and a familiar gnawing in my gut started up. We’d had runaways before – it was one of the grimmest ‘perks’ of doing fostering – but to lose a placid fourteen-year-old, only in our care for two days, felt like the biggest failure imaginable. I was also fearful about him heading out alone, possibly into traffic. Was he really as independent as he seemed? And why had he gone? Had he just had enough? Was he on some mission? Had he decided to try and make it to the hospital?

      ‘None of the above,’ Mike assured me, trying to quell my rising panic. ‘He’s a well-brought-up boy and he just wouldn’t do something like that.’

      ‘But what do we do?’ I asked him anxiously.

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