A Boy Without Hope: Part 2 of 3. Casey Watson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      ‘Fine!’ he huffed, pushing open the door to the stairwell. ‘I’ll do all the boring stuff. But it best not take all day!’

      Had I levelled up Miller’s imaginary scorecard? I hoped so. Though it nagged at me anyway, that sense of not quite being in control; of having to pit my wits against him to try and ‘win battles’. We were not supposed to be point scoring, like kids in a playground. I was his carer, and he was supposed to be earning points. Or would be, had we been able to sit down and create the chart to put them on together. Still, early days, I decided, as we emerged into the shopping mall. This was new territory – we were out, and that was something in itself. And in this new landscape – both in terms of the physical and the mental – all I could really do was go with the flow.

      Though ‘flow’ was a long way from being achieved. ‘What exactly are you going to buy in here?’ he asked, as we went into my favourite clothes shop. ‘Do you know? Because if you know what you want, it won’t take very long, will it. And then we’ll have time for the game shop.’

      I almost cracked a smile at the thought that those would be Mike’s thoughts and words exactly – well, if he dared voice them. Which, of course, he wouldn’t. One of the reasons our marriage endured was that, unless it was for some big manly electrical item, Mike didn’t come shopping with me any more. As far as he was concerned shopping was a chore, not a hobby. So I did have a smidge of sympathy for Miller. Or would have, had he not finished with, ‘Well?’

      ‘Miller, please!’ I said. ‘We had a deal, remember? And if you want me to keep my end of the bargain, then you have to be patient, and not badger me, okay? We will get to the game shop when, and if, we get there.’

      I was obviously long used to expecting the unexpected when fostering, but even I was astounded at what Miller did next. Which was to drop to the floor, lie down on his back and start cycling his legs madly, as if an enthusiastic participant at a legs, bums and tums class. Round they went, as if piston-powered, while his arms did their own thing – mostly flapping up and down as if miming a doggy paddle, right in the aisle between the jeans and dresses. Not so much ‘downward-facing dog’ as ‘stricken beetle’.

      I wasn’t stunned for long, despite his accompanying shrieking. For this was clearly no tantrum. Just a ploy to deflect me. Designed to ensure maximum embarrassment, and so ensure we beat a hasty retreat.

      So, rather than doing so, I ignored him, just as I would with a toddler, and began riffling through a pile of pastel jeans. Then, having selected a pair, I walked around him to a nearby mirror, where I held them against me, deciding whether they’d suit me.

      ‘Excuse me, madam.’ Another person appeared beside my reflection. ‘Is that young man over there’ – she gestured backwards – ‘with you?’

      It was obviously important that I brazen this one out. ‘He is,’ I confirmed, sotto voce. ‘He’s just amusing himself while I finish my shopping. He’s not bothering anyone, is he? He’ll be done soon.’

      ‘Um,’ the shop assistant said. And would doubtless have said more. Except Miller, red in the face, had scrambled to his feet, and now did his T-Rex impression for her. Then, having roared at her, he bolted from the store.

      I passed her the jeans. ‘See?’ I said. ‘Sorry. I have to go.’

      ***

      Perhaps oddly, I felt calm. And, to some extent, pleased. Finally, out in the world, we were getting somewhere. At least in as much as I was now able to start building a picture, and interacting with him in a way that might help open him up; help the precious process of my getting to understand him better.

      Given what I already knew about him, I wasn’t worried about him disappearing on me. Not least because there’s a big difference between twelve and, say, seven. But mostly because it was something he’d never before done. Coming back was his thing, every time. So it needed no play-acting to emerge slowly and nonchalantly from the shop, and cast around as if I didn’t much care either way. And there he was, across the street, leaning, apparently indifferently, against a bin. But I wasn’t fooled. He’d had his eyes trained on the shop front since he’d left it; I knew because, by virtue of my (lack of) height and the throng of people all around me, I’d spotted him before he’d spotted me.

      He straightened up, yanked the hoodie down again and glowered across the road at me. ‘Ha!’ he shouted. ‘You’re an idiot! Get me a game or I’m not coming back in the car!’

      I crossed the road, but as I did so he sprinted a few yards down the street.

      ‘New game or I’m gone,’ he said.

      I walked towards him. Again, he sprinted off a few yards.

      I carried on walking. ‘We didn’t say anything about buying a game, Miller,’ I told him. ‘And do you really think that this kind of behaviour will get you anything?’

      ‘Well, I’ll stop if you say you’ll get me one.’

      ‘That’s not how it works, Miller. You’ve made sure that I can’t do what I needed to do now, so, I’m sorry, love, but that means no trip to the game shop today. And no game either – you’re going to have to make up for this behaviour before I consider buying you a treat now.’

      ‘Bitch,’ came the response, as he ran further up the street.

      ‘And all the while you keep doing this, you’re just making it worse,’ I called out.

      ‘Don’t care!’ he yelled back. And off he went again.

      And again. And again. And again. And mindful of whichever American politician coined the ‘three strikes and you’re out’ rule, I stopped following Miller down the high street, got my phone out and called Mike. ‘What kept you?’ he asked, chuckling, when he answered the phone. ‘You need me to come get him for you?’

      Yes, indeed I did. But since it was going to be at least a fifteen- or twenty-minute wait, I followed my hunch that Miller (unsure how to play it now, clearly) would go precisely nowhere, and popped into the big bookshop outside which I’d told Mike to meet me.

      And I’d been right. When I emerged with a couple of greetings cards ten minutes later, he was exactly where I’d left him, leaning disconsolately against the chemist’s window and, though he was quick to turn away when he noticed I’d spotted him, he had clearly been waiting for me to come out.

      I experienced a moment of clarity. And sadness. How did it feel to be twelve, and so alone in the world that you were reduced to spending your Saturday afternoon playing ‘catch me if you can’ with a middle-aged virtual stranger? Because that was what was happening, wasn’t it? That was what this amounted to. He was like a stuck record, going round and round and round, and heading nowhere. I was just the latest in a long line of well-meaning strangers into whose lives – and I’m sure he’d have put it this way – he’d been unceremoniously dumped. I smiled. ‘Coming home?’ I called.

      ‘Fuck off!’

      Which, give or take the odd expletive, was exactly what I did, as soon as Mike pulled up and told me he’d take over. ‘Go and do your shopping, love,’ he said. ‘Just head back when you’re ready. I’ll round up me laddo, and we’ll see you at home.’

      But I didn’t shop, not in the end. I tried for a bit, but my heart was no longer in СКАЧАТЬ