Daddy’s Boy. Casey Watson

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      I nodded. ‘Indeed, I do,’ I said. ‘Though I don’t need to use it very often. And I hope I won’t have to while you’re with us, Paulie.’

      Again the look. The adolescent-seeming sneer. The expression of derision. ‘I’m not going on no fucking naughty step!’ he shrieked at me. ‘I’m not going on no scary fucking step!’ Then he burst into tears.

      Wow. I really could not believe my ears. I’d been around kids from every walk of life, with all kinds of problems. But, try as I might, I could not recall a time when I’d heard such words coming out of so young a mouth. Yes, I’d seen behaviours in children who weren’t a great deal older – early sexualisation, from being groomed practically from birth – but I’d never seen a child so young use such language in anger. They might be able to parrot the words, but this felt different; this really did feel like an older child trapped in a younger one’s body. It felt too bizarre to be true. But true it most certainly was. This angelic-looking, tiny child was right here in my dining room, yelling obscenities at me as if it were all normal.

      John looked as helpless as I felt, but was clearly disinclined to pick him up or otherwise physically comfort him. Knowing almost nothing about the ground on which I was treading, I followed John’s lead. ‘Tyler,’ he said calmly, ‘Paulie likes cartoons. Do you think you could get him settled in front of the telly for ten minutes while me and Casey talk?’

      ‘Sure,’ said Tyler, nodding his head towards the snivelling Paulie, whose sobs, it seemed, responded well to this news. He certainly showed no hesitation in meekly taking Tyler’s outstretched hand.

      Within moments, he was installed on the sofa, apparently happily, with control of the remote and a cushion to cuddle, with Tyler – for the moment, at least, since he’d be leaving in half an hour or so – remaining close by in case he was needed, bless his heart. So far, I thought, so bizarre.

      ‘What on earth?’ I whispered to John as I led him into the kitchen and set about making him a caffeine fix – he was as manic a coffee-addict as I was. ‘Come on then, what’s his story?’ I smiled. ‘And, trust me, nothing you could say now would surprise me. What a singular kid!’

      John shrugged off his own jacket and ran a hand through his hair. ‘It’s hard to know where to start really, and most unusual. You’re right. He’s a funny kid.’

      ‘Funny doesn’t even cover it. Perhaps I’m out of touch,’ I said, conscious that I was of pre-naughty-step vintage, ‘but I can honestly say I never realised there were five-year-olds who could speak like that.’

      ‘It’s obviously all he knows,’ John said. ‘It seems completely second nature, doesn’t it? I honestly don’t think he has any idea that the language he uses is inappropriate.’

      ‘Which begs the next question – what sort of world has he come from?’