Which was fine. Fostering was what we did. Most placements were long ones. The problem lay in that word ‘emergency’, which meant little time to consider. No time for preparatory meetings, no chance to see if there was a ‘fit’. It was a ‘sold, sight unseen’ sort of situation, almost. Yes, you’d see the child, but they would be even more of an unknown quantity than the children you did get to see before you took them, and they could be complicated enough.
‘I think you should say yes,’ Tyler piped up. ‘Just go for it. Might be fun to have another kid around for a couple of days, mightn’t it? ’Specially another boy,’ he added. ‘Yeah, I think you should say yes.’
Mike rolled his eyes and grinned. We all knew the circumstances in which Tyler had come to us. ‘So let’s be clear,’ he said, holding a hand up to tick on fingers. ‘He’s eight. He’s attacked a social worker. And there’s an iron bar involved. What could possibly go wrong?’
We all laughed of course, but taking on such a child was a serious business, even if it was only in theory for a couple of days. That they’d rung us at all seemed to be an indication that we shouldn’t take the child on lightly; EDT (the social services emergency duty team) only rang private fostering agency carers like us when they had exhausted all other avenues.
Which Julie Jenkins from the EDT had already confirmed. ‘We’ve tried every single authority carer we could think of,’ she’d explained, ‘and without success. So I really don’t have anyone else to turn to. And I saw in your file that you’ve helped us out in the past. I know it’s not an easy one, but we’re pretty desperate.’
‘Not an easy one’ was something of an understatement.
‘He’s called Connor,’ she explained. ‘Latterly of a children’s home in Swindon. He’s been in children’s homes since he was five, by all accounts –’
‘Five?’ I spluttered. ‘Not with a family?’
‘No, not with a family,’ she confirmed. ‘And right now, his current placement is no more.’
She went on to explain that Connor had taken an iron bar and attacked his social worker with it and, as the children’s home staff had tried to restrain him, another child – a ten-year-old girl – had ended up in the firing line and had also been hit; she had cuts to her face and a broken bone in her hand where she’d raised it to try to protect herself.
‘Wow,’ I’d said, shocked. And I’m fairly unshockable.
‘I know,’ Julie said. ‘And I’m afraid that’s pretty much all I can tell you. But the manager at the home is ringing me back with more details any minute, so while you have a think, I’ll see what else I can find out. And don’t worry. They have assured me that after the weekend they have a number of carers who will be freed up and can take him. So it really is just till Monday, I promise.’
Although I was slightly stunned by the thought of an eight-year-old who could be so violent, as I’d put the phone down – having promised to talk it through with Mike and Tyler – I reminded myself that a collection of bald facts could sound so much more damning than they might be in reality. Take Tyler himself, for instance; our first meeting was following a phone call from John asking me to turn up at a police station to see about taking on ‘an 11-year-old boy who’s stabbed his stepmother’. Which he had, but the reality was quite different from the image that series of words first conjured up. Rather than it being an act of extreme violence – a knife plunged into an innocent victim – it had actually happened by accident. Which wasn’t to condone it; the knife should not have been in his hand in the first place, even if it was only being wielded after provocation, as an empty threat. But it did serve as a reminder that it was important to see the whole picture with a child, and a situation, before jumping to conclusions.
And I knew Mike was thinking that, too.
‘So, yay or nay?’ I asked again now, as my mobile began to vibrate again. Both Mike and Tyler nodded – as I’d already known they would – so I shooed them into the kitchen to take charge of breakfast as I took the call.
Julie Jenkins couldn’t have been more grateful. ‘Really?’ she said, as if she really couldn’t believe her luck; a child with nowhere to go wasn’t the sort of headache anyone wanted – particularly on a Saturday morning.
‘Really,’ I confirmed. ‘No, that’s fine. We’ll take him for the weekend. Well, provided he isn’t a serial killer or anything.’
‘Oh, Casey, that will be such a help,’ she said, the relief evident in her voice. ‘Honestly, trying to get a carer freed up on a weekend is nigh on impossible. Mind you, I can’t lie to you. It hasn’t helped that he’s a bit of a nightmare.’
Alarm bells began buzzing in my head. Had I got that wrong about her having no prior knowledge of the boy? I’d assumed she’d been reading from notes she’d been given, but did she already know him? Trying not to feel cross – had she deliberately kept that from me till I’d agreed to have him? – I regrouped. ‘Oh, right,’ I said lightly. ‘Do you already know him?’
‘Not personally,’ she replied, ‘but this isn’t the first time we’ve had to find an emergency placement for him, sad to say. I can recall doing it myself on at least three occasions and I know other colleagues have had similar dealings with him, too.’
I felt a mixture of heart-sink and determination when she said that. Much as a child like this could completely derail our weekend, there was always this part of me mentally rolling my sleeves up. Which is undoubtedly why I became a foster carer in the first place. I do love a challenge. ‘Is he really that bad?’ I asked, now I knew there was more she could tell me. ‘I mean, how bad can an eight-year-old really be? And was it really an iron bar? I know how these things can change in translation. And how on earth does a child get hold of such a thing in a children’s home?’
I heard Julie sigh. ‘And it wasn’t just any children’s home, either. It’s a semi-secure unit. I don’t know where he got the weapon from but, yes, it was definitely some kind of iron bar. And he had no fear about attacking the staff member or anybody else who got in his way.’
I started to waver then, regretting my earlier gung-ho enthusiasm, imagining recounting these minor details to Mike and Tyler. What was I letting myself in for? What were we letting ourselves in for? ‘Can you be straight with me?’ I asked. ‘We have a 13-year-old boy here, as I’m sure you already know. I feel daft even asking this given Connor’s age but, well, will we be putting Tyler in danger?’
There was the briefest of pauses. ‘All I can give you are the facts,’ Julie said. ‘But if it’s any reassurance, what I can tell you is that when it gets to this – when Connor has flipped out so much that he’s had to be taken off somewhere else to get himself together, then that’s just what he usually seems to do. He usually has a few weepy days away, feeling very sorry for himself and for all the trouble he’s caused, and then goes back all contrite and vowing to be better.’ She sighed. ‘You know how it works, Casey – it only ever lasts for a couple of months, sadly, but there you have it. The one thing I can say with a bit of confidence is that the respite carers don’t get to see the worst of him.’
I made a mental risk assessment. What she said did make sense. Then I told her yes for a second time. That she could have him transported to us and that I’d just be extra vigilant