It was a good ten minutes before the two of them were once again in sight, walking towards me. ‘What on earth was that about?’ I asked Spencer, as soon as he was in earshot. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. What were you thinking?’
The young man stuck a hand out and grinned at me amiably. ‘Mr Gorman,’ he said. ‘Very nice to meet you. You’ll be Spencer’s foster mother, then, will you?’
I nodded and introduced myself. ‘And I’m really, really sorry. I had no idea he’d try to run away. I’m so sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Mrs Watson,’ he said. ‘Not your fault. Someone should have told you – young Spencer here doesn’t like our school a whole lot.’ He playfully ruffled Spencer’s hair. ‘Isn’t that right, young man?’
We started towards the entrance, Mr Gorman’s hand gently guiding Spencer. ‘His mum and dad used to have to physically bring him right into reception,’ he said chattily. ‘But he’s always fine once he’s in, aren’t you, mate?’
Spencer looked resigned, but, at the same time, a little pleased with himself. There was clearly a bond here, and something else besides. This stunt of his had brought him some positive attention. Was that a part of why he did it? ‘Come on,’ said Mr Gorman, laughing. ‘Let’s get you settled in your class, then Mrs Watson and I can have a chat, okay?’
‘Okay, sir,’ Spencer answered. ‘But it was worth a try though, wannit?’ And with that, he skipped off to class, grinning cheekily.
* * *
It took around 20 minutes for Mr Gorman to give me a quick guided tour of the school. He was Spencer’s supervising teacher – a role that a head of year would have in a conventional school – and as we walked he told me Spencer was a miniature Houdini, who’d abscond any chance he could get. What the school did, he explained, was to minimise those chances, keeping him occupied almost every moment of the school day, and never letting him out into the grounds unsupervised. This was reassuring, though it did leave me very unnerved. At no point had anyone mentioned this to me or Mike before, much less given us any directives about keeping him indoors. Surely something like this should have come up? I made a mental note to ring the supervising social worker.
I was still ruminating on this as I drove round to Riley’s, where I’d planned on spending much of the school day. Spencer was eight, much too young to be safe out alone. It seemed clear I’d need to keep my wits about me.
‘Not that you’ll be able to do a lot about it anyway,’ said Riley, after I’d droned on for half an hour. ‘I mean, you can obviously keep him indoors all the while he’s grounded. But what about next week? You’re going to have to let him out then, aren’t you?’
‘Am I? At eight? Unsupervised? That feels so young.’
Riley pointed towards her kitchen window, which looked out onto her street. ‘Not at all. Just look out there at three thirty any weekday. There are kids way younger than eight playing out these days.’
God, I thought, as I drained my mug of coffee. This placement might prove to be harder than I’d thought. I would need eyes in the back of my head.
I spent the rest of the day with Riley and the little ones, which worked its magic, as usual, and when I arrived back to collect him it seemed school had done likewise with Spencer. He ran out to me brandishing a picture he’d painted, obviously in very high spirits.
‘It’s for you and Mike,’ he said proudly, as he held it up to show me. ‘This is a mountain, an’ that’s the black sky – cos it’s dark – an’ this here, with all the red on, is a dead wolf. That’s its blood an’ guts all over that rock there,’ he finished proudly. ‘D’you like it?’
I nodded as I surveyed the colourful scene of bloody carnage. ‘Very good – very artistic,’ I agreed.
Mr Gorman was in high spirits too. I got the impression that every day he hung on to Spencer was a day for celebration. ‘We’ve had a good day today, haven’t we, Spencer?’
And it seemed we were going to have a good evening too. We played Lego after tea, and then Mike produced a new DVD, which he’d picked up on the way home and which clearly delighted Spencer. It was the Disney film Cars, which he’d already seen at the cinema, and couldn’t wait to sit down with us and see again.
I went to bed happy that night, thinking that we might be making progress. I even let myself believe, given how badly the day had started, that the old Casey magic was beginning to work its spell. Which just goes to show that the adage holds true. Pride always comes before a fall.
However, it would be the following evening before I could see that. Like Wednesday, Thursday seemed to be a day full of positives. Spencer trotted into school happily – no break for the border – and when I picked him up, once again he was smiling. And he continued to smile until he’d finished his tea, upon which he told me that he wanted to play out.
‘You can’t, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘You’re still grounded, remember?’
‘But I have to,’ he whined. ‘I told Connor I would.’
‘Connor? Who’s Connor?’ I said. I didn’t know the name.
‘He lives up the road,’ he said. ‘He’s my age. We speak out of our windows.’
‘Out of your windows?’ I asked, baffled. ‘What d’you mean, speak out of your windows?’
‘He’s only two doors up,’ he explained, as though any idiot would know that. ‘We lean out of our bedroom windows and we chat. Please, Casey,’ he pleaded, ‘just for half an hour? I told him …’
‘No, Spencer, you can’t,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want you leaning out of your bedroom window either. It’s a skylight and it’s dangerous to be leaning out of it.’
‘But I said I’d call for him.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have. You knew you were grounded. Rules are rules. You’ll have to wait till Saturday – points permitting, you can call for him then.’
He acted so quickly right then that I was almost too late. One minute he was sitting there, looking all dejected, and the next he was out of the kitchen and in the hallway like an Exocet missile, only thwarted from escaping by our Yale lock. ‘Spencer,’ I snapped, ‘what on earth do you think you’re doing?’
He dropped his hands, defeated, and glared at me defiantly. ‘You can’t keep me in,’ he yelled. ‘I’m eight years old. Not a kid.’
If his sentiment about what age a ‘kid’ was sounded amusing, his defiance was definitely not. I stepped past him, turned the mortice-lock key below, and then removed it, while he pouted his disapproval before stomping into the living room. Here he turned. ‘You can’t keep it locked for ever,’ he said to me. ‘I’ll be off as soon as you forget. Stupid idiot!’
Out in the kitchen, preparing fish and vegetables for tea, I felt cross with myself. I felt uncharacteristically wound up – and by a little boy of eight! I was also beginning to realise that all the improbable-sounding warnings this child had come with were little by little beginning to come true. I put the fish in the oven to cook and washed my hands. As Spencer was in the living room, watching TV now, perhaps I should go into the conservatory and call his social worker.
But it seemed Glenn had a slightly different take on things where Spencer was concerned. ‘It sounds worse than it is,’ he soothed, after I’d outlined the incident in school, his teacher’s comments and the fact that he’d just tried to abscond from the house. ‘I mean, I do know he’s only eight, but he’s not stupid. According to his parents he spends the majority of his days out on the streets – always has – and he can obviously take care of himself.’
I almost spluttered. ‘So you’re saying we should just leave him to run wild?’
‘No,