LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Why is it not fair?’ He looked crestfallen. ‘Haven’t I been a good boy?’

      ‘Sweetheart, it’s not about you being a good boy. Which you have been, no question. But it’s not really something I think you’d enjoy. All those people, all strangers. And in a place you don’t know –’

      ‘I don’t mind. I like strangers.’

      This wasn’t going well. ‘I know, Sam, I know, but we’ve decided to arrange for you to have your own adventure. They’re very boring things, weddings, and I’m sure you’d be fed up. So we’ve arranged an adventure for you. Guess where?’

      I’d chosen the right word (‘adventure’ being one of his favourites) because now, finally, he at least seemed intrigued. ‘Is it Kieron’s? With Luna?’

      I shook my head. ‘No, not Kieron’s. Kieron will be at the wedding with us. It’s –’

      ‘But why can’t I just come with you? I’ll be a good boy, I promise. Oh –’ Something had obviously occurred to him, because he smiled now. ‘Is it Sampson’s? Am I going on an adventure with Sampson again?’

I slit the seal on the package and the dresses slithered out. I mentally crossed fingers that one of them would fit. There was precious time now to get anything else. But trying them on would have to wait. This was a far more pressing problem.

      ‘No, love, not with Sampson,’ I said, going over to the wardrobe for hangers. ‘He’s not allowed to have you over. He’s not allowed to have any kids sleep over,’ I added, ‘because of his very important job. Have another guess. Have a think. Where else would you like to stay over? Who haven’t you seen for a long time?’

      He was puzzled now, and I could tell he was desperately trying to think. ‘I can’t guess,’ he said eventually, frowning from the effort. ‘Well, there’s Will and Courtney, but they’re not allowed to see me anymore, are they? And I don’t know anyone else, do I? Who is it?’

      I wondered who had told him that. Kelly, perhaps? Possibly. Or perhaps someone had said something in the drama of the removal, and he had simply put two and two together and worked it out for himself. I hung the dresses one by one on the back of the wardrobe door, reflecting sadly that, in all probability, he didn’t know anyone else, either. Not in any meaningful sense. One truism about children who came into the care system was that they weren’t usually brimming with caring friends and relatives, after all. ‘Ah, but you do,’ I said, trying to keep the mood light. ‘How about, let me see … Mrs Gallagher, your next-door neighbour?’

      ‘Auntie Maureen?’ he said, and more confusion crossed his features. ‘You mean I’m going to her house?’

      He immediately shook his head.

Now it was me with the confused expression. ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ I said. ‘Your auntie Maureen certainly is. In fact, she’s really excited to be looking after you. She can’t wait to see you. Sam, why the long face? What’s wrong?’

      He met my enquiring gaze with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Then lowered his own gaze. ‘I can’t go back to that place.’

      I made a mental gear change. I’d obviously touched a nerve with him now. Because this was definitely not the response I’d expected.

      I sat down on the bed and patted the space beside me. He climbed on to join me. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said, ‘no one’s going to make you go back there. Not back to your old home. We wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll be going to Mrs Gallagher’s – your auntie Maureen’s. She’s looking forward to seeing you. I thought you’d be pleased,’ I said again. ‘Aren’t you looking forward to seeing her again?’

      Now he nodded. Picked at the duvet cover. ‘I s’pose.’

      ‘So what’s wrong?’

‘I just can’t go back there.’ There were tears in his eyes now. And had it been physically possible, I could have kicked myself. As it was, I could only berate myself, soundly. Of course he was stressed about going back to his old life. To all the sights, sounds and feelings – to igniting memories he was so keen to forget. Because he wasn’t like his siblings, was he? He had all his other challenges. And it really hit me now that, in all the weeks we had cared for him, he’d said almost nothing before this – not to us, not to Colin – either about his siblings or his mother. All we knew for sure was that a ‘bad man’ had scared him and hurt him. That he had, briefly, had a puppy. That he had developed a deep need for his ‘dog cage’. Of his human family, on the other hand, he had told us precisely nothing. They had been the elephant in the room that we’d always stepped around. When the time came, and he was assessed by CAMHS, and (hopefully) allocated a counsellor, they would no doubt make gentle steps to confront that particular element. But for the time being, if Sam didn’t want to talk about his old life then it was central to my job that I not try and make him. To take my lead from him, rather than lead him into choppy emotional waters.

      And, here, for only the second time, he seemed to be dipping a toe in.

      ‘Can you tell me why, Sam?’

      In answer, he didn’t speak at first, but snuggled up against my chest. I put my arms around him, feeling his hot little hands against my back. ‘Please let me come with you and Mike,’ he whispered. ‘Please. I’ll be good, I’ll be so good. I don’t want to go nowhere. And you have to look after me.’ His voice began to rise now. ‘You can’t send me away. It’s your job!’

He certainly picked his moment to understand that I had one. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said, shocked by the urgency of his pleading, ‘you’re not going back there. You’ll be staying with your auntie Maureen, like I said. And she told me you used to go and stay with her all the time. That you used to love it. She said you really loved her lemon buns – so she’s going to make some for you specially. She’s –’

      He pulled back. ‘But you’re not supposed to. You’re supposed to look after me. I’ll be a good boy, I promise. I could call you Mummy, if you like, so no one will even know I’m not your real kid. Please let me come.’

      I leaned back too, touched by both the gesture and the logic. ‘Sam, love, can you tell me why you don’t want to see your auntie Maureen?’

      ‘I do want to see her,’ he said, crying now. ‘But I told you. I can’t go back!’

      He scrambled off the bed then, out of the room, and across the landing to his own room. The door slammed. Then silence. I got up and followed him. What on earth?

      I knocked softly on the door. ‘Sam?’

      ‘Go away! I hate you!’ came the answer.

      My thoughts floundering, I hovered at the door for a few moments in case I heard evidence of things being thrown around. I really didn’t know what to make of it all. Was this connected to his autism? No, I doubted it. More likely – most likely – simply a fear of returning. Which was, after all, a perfectly rational response. We had probably been naïve in imagining he’d be okay with it. To be so close to the place where he’d been abused by this nameless ‘bad man’ would, after all, be an enormous challenge for him.

I headed back downstairs, deep in thought, having a major rethink on what we’d organised. I’d clearly been labouring under a misapprehension. That to spend time with his neighbour – who, admittedly, he didn’t seem to have any issue with – would, or at least could, become a positive in his life.

      Instead it seemed as if the idea had plunged him off a new emotional cliff. He’d been coping with his traumas by living completely in the moment, and here we were, trying to force him back to the horrors of the past. Perhaps we needed to think again.

      But with less than forty-eight hours to go, what

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