He looked at me pointedly. And might have meant nothing by it. It might just have been a simple statement of fact, which I understood. And, to a great extent, agreed with. At least, in principle. But I still felt that pressure – that what he was really saying was that the ball was in my court, and the decision was mine. That it would be my fault if Miller didn’t get psychiatric help, so he could start getting better. I almost caved in at that point – God, I felt that as well, didn’t I? And hadn’t I already told Miller that the placement wouldn’t end? Hadn’t that been my exact point? That he couldn’t control that? Yet here he was, it seemed, doing exactly that, even from his bedroom. Even so, something, some instinct, held me back; kept me going.
‘As soon as I can tell you something different, I will,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do any better than that at this point. The sad truth is that if Miller is determined to end a placement, he will do so, by one means or another.’ I glanced around the table. ‘We all already know that. And frustrated as I am to admit it, we may not have any say in the matter.’
‘I understand what you’re saying, Casey,’ said Jane, the supervising social worker. ‘And I realise that this leaves us at a bit of an impasse.’ She looked at the psychologist. ‘So, how about, until we all know how this will pan out, Casey has access to your out-of-hours team? Perhaps she could make use of the service in the event of an emergency, or if she just needs some advice on something? Would that be something you could offer?’
‘That seems reasonable,’ the psychologist said. ‘And, yes, I don’t see why not.’
‘Excellent!’ Libby said, as if he’d offered me the moon on a stick. My ‘thank you’ was rather more muted.
But I at least got the Band-Aid. However, even as I made a note of the numbers he then gave me, I knew it would be highly unlikely that I’d ever use them. How could I be supported by people who knew nothing of Miller? His background, his psychological problems, his ongoing issues? What help could they possibly give me in a crisis situation?
But there was clearly nothing else on offer. And not much left to say. Except by the social worker who’d spent the meeting holed up in Miller’s bedroom, and whose comment, when he’d been called down, when Jane asked him how things had gone, had only one word for her – ‘hmm’.
But it seemed Miller himself did have something to offer me. Because, as soon as I’d waved the team off and closed the front door, I turned around to see the boy himself halfway down the stairs. He’d clearly been waiting and watching, having heard them all leaving. He also had some items in his hands.
‘You alright, love?’ I asked him, wondering at his strange expression as he came down the remaining half dozen. And I felt for him. How many children, as part of their everyday normality, had to cope with the knowledge that strangers (and they were, in many cases) sat around discussing their futures in the way we’d just done? Yes, it was what it was, and it had to be done. But, on the front line – there to mop up, once the professionals had swept out again – I never felt comfortable with it.
In reply, he held one hand out, and I opened my palm. He placed two things in it. Both plastic disposable lighters. Then the other hand. And, once again, I held a hand out. And in that one he placed a knife.
It was a slender chef’s knife, and it was heavy. And doubtless sharp. And it wasn’t mine.
‘Where are these from, love?’ I asked him.
He seemed happy to answer. ‘I’ve had the lighters for yonks,’ he said. ‘I stole the knife off Jenny. I thought you might as well have them now, seeing as the police will prob’ly find them.’
‘The police? There are no police coming.’
‘There are always police coming.’
I turned the knife over in my hand. ‘Why did you steal this from Jenny, Miller?’
He pulled a face – one that said, Do you even need to ask? ‘For protection, of course,’ he said.
‘Protection from what, Miller? From who?’
He shrugged. ‘Just in case,’ he said.
‘In case of what?’
A heavy outbreath. ‘Just in case.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ I said. ‘What situation do you imagine where you’d need – or want – to use this?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just need to be able to defend myself.’
‘Against what, love? Everyone around you – me, Mike, Libby … absolutely everyone – wants only what’s best for you. No one wants to hurt you.’
‘So you say …’
‘But it’s true, Miller. You know that.’
He shook his head. ‘Well, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘About what?’
‘About a raid. About everything. You’re on your own now.’
‘Miller, there is not going to be police raid. Nothing bad is going to happen. There is no need for you to be frightened about someone trying to hurt you. Or us.’
He looked at me strangely. ‘So you say,’ he said again.
Then he turned on his heel and went back up to his room, leaving me at a loss to know what to do or what to say. But he was right about one thing, I thought, as I took the contraband into the kitchen. That’s exactly how I felt. That I was on my own now.
***
Despite my resolution that he would have to earn back the TV remote, after our encounter I returned it to Miller’s room. I’d been discomfited, to say the least, about his proclamations of impending danger, and was still chewing over the whys and wherefores of what he’d said. Mainly the whys. Why did he feel that he needed protection? There was nothing to indicate it in his records, but was it because of an incident that had happened with a removal from a previous placement? Or – more likely, I imagined – related to violence meted out to him while still with his parents? Either way, he clearly felt he was in danger – something clearly reflected in his obsession with disasters and death; his endless wondering what it might feel like to be fatally wounded. Yet he’d also spontaneously given up his ‘protection’, which, however garbled his thinking, felt like a big step towards trust.
Of course, it might just be that he genuinely believed that, as a result of the disclosures and the meeting, they’d have been searched for and found anyway. But even if that were so, it was still a considered action – one of taking control, yes, but of taking control in a positive way. A decision taken to perhaps minimise negative consequences. No, I wasn’t sure that was quite how he’d seen it himself, but when I’d given it back I’d made much of the fact that he had taken control of a situation in a way that I definitely approved of. That he’d been a good boy, and had done the right thing.
Though, as I’d had to talk to the duvet in which he was currently rolled up, saying nothing, what he thought of my little speech, I had no idea.
***
At around three that afternoon, a young fire officer arrived at the house, armed with a small laptop and a big smile. He looked to be in his early thirties and was so tall that he had to duck his head as he entered the house.
‘Well, I thought my husband was tall,’ I said, as he bent even lower to come into the living room. ‘I must look like someone from Gulliver’s Travels to you.’
The fireman laughed. ‘Not just you, Mrs Watson, I can assure you. I kind of have this dwarfing effect on most people. I blame my father. I’m David Helm, by the way,’ he added,