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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.

      ‘We go back home and make a plan.’

      Mike was right, of course. It was completely out of character for Cameron to run away. But even so – even if he’d just gone on a wander – we still faced the grim task of calling Jeremy and telling him our ‘charge’ was no longer under our charge. And by the time we got back, called his number and left a voice message, I was becoming more and more agitated. He hadn’t taken his holdall, but he had taken his stick. Oh, God, I thought, where had he gone?

      It was still early – not far past eight yet – so it wasn’t surprising that it was a while before our anxious reveries were interrupted by the sudden sound of ringing, which made us jump. But it wasn’t the phone, it was the doorbell, which we both rushed to get to, to be rewarded by a reassuring bulky shadow beyond the glass.

      Mike opened the door. ‘Cameron!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where’ve you been, lad?’

      I took in the scene: Cameron, looking sheepish, and an elderly gentleman I vaguely recognised, who introduced himself as Mr Parsons, and who, though looking only slightly less bemused than we were, had a definite twinkle in his eye.

      ‘This one belong to you?’ he asked, grinning.

      ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, he does. Cameron, what happened?’

      Cameron’s face was turning the same colour as next door’s roses. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, frowning. ‘I feel such an idiot.’

      ‘Found him a couple of streets away,’ Mr Parsons said, ‘on my way back from getting my paper. So I took him indoors, gave him a drink – it’s a hot old morning to be traipsing the streets, eh? And it took a little time to fathom out where he belonged, but between us we got there, didn’t we, son?’

      ‘I’m sorry …’ Cameron began again.

      Mr Parsons chortled. ‘Sorry? Not a bit of it! Most entertaining Saturday morning I’ve had in a long time, believe me. And a pleasure to meet you, young man!’

      Waving Mr Parsons off with our undying gratitude, we bundled Cameron back indoors for a debrief.

      ‘Where were you off to?’ I wanted to know, trying not to sound like I was chastising him. I was conscious that he’d been with us less than forty-eight hours and seemed to be apologising right, left, and centre.

      But it turned out he hadn’t been running away. In fact, the idea brought a smile to his lips. ‘Casey, I think I’m the last person on earth who should try running away from anywhere, don’t you?’

      All he’d wanted to do was post a letter. Well, more correctly, a postcard, to his gran. It was the one from the petting zoo which, unbeknown to either Mike or me, he’d had Kieron write and address for him the previous evening, just before going off to do his DJing.

      ‘I

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