Storms - 24. Daniel

I came home from Michael’s house Friday night to find Mum in the living room, which was strange enough on its own, as she hadn’t been out of her room all week as far as I was aware. She was in her dressing gown, but her face was awake and alert. I tried to think. It wasn’t benefits day, that would be next week. I knew because I was counting down the days until I could try and get myself that coat.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I said. ‘What . . . what are you doing up?’

She pursed her lips. She was ashen-faced as ever, rings around her eyes. ‘I got a phone call. From your PE teacher again.’ I froze. Loz? Had he tried to pull the same thing again? But then she continued, ‘He said tonight was parents’ night. We were missed.’ She paused. ‘You didn’t tell me it was parents’ night.’

I licked my lips and looked away. It was true, tonight was parents’ night for year ten. With everything that had been happening, I had forgotten to forge a note from my mum to tell the school we weren’t coming. ‘I . . . I forgot,’ I mumbled.

She sighed. ‘It’s not your fault. They had tried to contact me, I just . . .’ And then she burst into tears.

I ran to her side and sat down next to her, putting my arms around her. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’s just parents’ night.’

She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown before she turned to me with her dark brown eyes. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were being bullied, sweet?’

I cast my eyes down again, pulling away from her a little. ‘It’s no big deal,’ I mumbled. ‘You . . . it was nothing you needed to worry about.’

‘You think it’s nothing I need to worry about when you’re attacked at a party? When someone puts up posters of you around the school calling you queer?’ She was too tired to sound angry, but I could sense it beneath the surface. ‘That’s the sort of thing you should be telling your mother!’

‘Yeah?’ I felt the anger rise in my own voice. ‘And what would you have done, then? Would you have gotten out of bed, gone to the school? You’d have done fuck all, just like you did when James hit me, or Dylan, or Ryan! I’ve always been bullied, at school and by your shitty boyfriends. Why the hell would you even react now, when you didn’t then?’

I stood up and ran to my room, slamming the door and throwing my school bag on the bed. The moment I was in there I started to cry, hot, angry tears spilling down my face. Now she suddenly cared? Now she gave a shit? I slumped back against the door, knees up to my chest, and started weeping in earnest, resting my face on my arms. Shouldn’t she have followed me? Shouldn’t she at least knock on my door? Try to come in to comfort me?

Once I had calmed a bit, I stood up and picked up my school bag from the bed again. I grabbed clean pants, a t-shirt, and jeans from my dresser, and stuffed them inside the bag. They barely fit, but I didn’t care. I opened the door again, to find Mum still on the sofa. She looked up at me.

‘I’m going back to Michael’s,’ I told her.

She blinked. Opened her mouth. Closed it again. Then she said, ‘Okay,’ and I left.

She should have come after me. She should have told me I was to stay at home, that I was grounded for lying to her, that we were going to talk about this whether I wanted to or not. That’s what a mother would do. But she didn’t.

I should probably have rung Michael on the way, but as it was I didn’t think about it until I stood at his doorstep and rang the bell.

Liz opened. ‘Daniel? Did you forget something?’

I swallowed. ‘Can I come in? Please?’ My voice broke.

‘What happened?’ She stepped aside. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Who is it?’ came Michael’s voice from the living room. The telly was on. I could hear some TV programme or another.

‘It’s Daniel,’ Liz called back. ‘Please, come in, sweetie.’

The endearment was almost enough to make me cry again, but I kept it in. I stepped inside, and she shut the door behind me.

‘Danny?’ Michael appeared in the doorway to the living room. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I . . .’ And then the tears came, because he looked so earnestly concerned and I felt like I couldn’t breathe when he looked at me like that. He came to me in three long strides and pulled me into a tight embrace.

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ he murmured. ‘It’s all right.’ With an arm around my shoulder, he walked me into the living room and sat me down on the sofa, while Liz went into the kitchen to make some tea. Michael kissed the top of my head. ‘Did something happen?’

I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, shakily. ‘My mum, she . . .’ I released a sob I couldn’t hold back and tried again. ‘Mum got a phone call from Griffiths. It was parents’ night tonight, and we weren’t there, so . . . Anyway, he told her I was being bullied, and when I got home she confronted me and acted all concerned, and I was angry, I told her she’s never been concerned before, when her boyfriends . . . when I’d been hurt, before. I couldn’t stay there. So I just left. Shit . . .’ I sobbed again and buried my face in Michael’s chest. He stroked my back slowly. The weight and pressure of his hand was soothing, and I managed to calm my breathing and my frantic heart. ‘I guess I should feel lucky she cared at all.’

Michael shook his head. I looked at him to see his face set in a stony expression. It softened when he met my gaze, and he shook his head again. ‘I don’t . . . I know she’s your mum, but . . .’ He released a slow breath through his nose, working his jaw. ‘Fuck her.’

I found myself smiling, in spite of it all. ‘I . . . I really don’t disagree, at the moment.’ I sighed, looking away again, my smile fading. ‘She didn’t even ask me to stay. I mean, shouldn’t a mum at least do that? Shouldn’t she be calling me by now? That’s what’s so . . .’ I licked my lips. ‘Why doesn’t she love me, Michael?’ It was barely more than a whisper, but he tightened his hold on me.

‘I don’t know. I mean, she probably does, in her way, but . . . I don’t know, Danny.’

Liz entered the room with a tea tray. She set it down on the coffee table. She wore a pained expression. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked softly. ‘Is there something I can do?’

I looked up at her. ‘Can I stay? Please? I don’t want to go home.’

She sat down on Michael’s other side and took my hand, which was resting on his stomach. ‘Why don’t you want to go home?’

‘I just . . .’ I looked away from her, down at her hand holding mine. ‘I just can’t go home. Please.’

‘Only if you give me a reason,’ she said. Her voice was firm, but not angry.

‘Come on, Liz.’ Michael’s voice was pleading. ‘He just, he needs to—’

‘Michael. Daniel.’ We both looked at her. ‘I need to know why. Okay? What’s going on? If you just tell me, I promise to let you stay.’

I sighed, and then I told her, in broad strokes, what I had told Michael, and about my mum’s depression. When I was done, Liz let go of my hand and exhaled heavily. She was frowning. ‘If this is what it’s like for you, shouldn’t you be—?’ She paused. ‘I mean, you’re only fourteen, for fuck’s sake. If you’re being neglected like this, if your mum can’t look after you, you need help. Both of you.’

‘But I don’t want to be taken away. I don’t . . . I have something, now.’ My eyes turned to Michael. ‘Someone. I’ve never . . . I’ve never had anyone before. They might take me away from that. What if they don’t let me stay? What if I have to move, change schools again? I couldn’t . . . I don’t know what I’d do. How I’d even cope with that, I can’t . . .’ I was all cried out, or I would have started again.

Liz nodded. ‘Okay. You can stay. And I can’t make the decision for you, but you should tell someone. You should talk to a teacher or something about this. If your mum is gonna be able to be your mum, she needs help, and it doesn’t sound like she’s gonna seek it on her own. And you’re just a kid, you need to be looked after.’

I sighed and nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Okay. Go on, put your stuff in Michael’s room.’

* * *

I ended up staying the weekend. I really didn’t want to go home on Sunday, but in the end, I knew I had to. When I got in, at around nine o’clock, Mum was in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette with the window cracked. She looked so small.

‘I’m home,’ I said quietly.

‘Yes. Welcome back.’ Her voice was flat, a bit hoarse. ‘Did you have a good time at Michael’s?’

I almost laughed. Almost. ‘Yeah. It was good. I’m heading to bed.’

‘Okay. Goodnight.’

She had clearly spent the one fuck she had to give. I cried myself to sleep.

The following morning I went to school, having managed a bit of breakfast, for once not terrified on a Monday though I felt far from happy. I hoped I would catch a glimpse of Michael before my first lesson, but I didn’t. He’d sent me a text that morning, though. Hope you’re okay today. I’ll see you at school. x

When I arrived for my first lesson, Mr. Hassan informed me that I was expected in Mr. Hugh’s office in the second half of the dinner break. I mentioned this to Julie while we jogged around the gym in PE.

‘That’s odd. Do they want to talk more about what happened with Patrick, do you think?’

I shook my head. ‘I have no idea. Let the others know if I don’t make it to dinner?’

I still waited for everyone to leave before I showered, but at least I could do so without fear. Half the break was already over when I was finished, so I made my way to Mr. Hugh’s office. I heard voices inside when I reached the door and hesitated a moment, listening.

‘If he doesn’t tell us anything, our hands are tied.’ It was Mr. Hugh’s voice.

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ That was definitely Mr. Griffiths. ‘But his mother all but told me that she was too ill to take care of him. Isn’t that enough to do something, Albert?’

A third voice joined in. Mrs. Penn. ‘Let’s talk to the boy first. See what he has to say. Maybe he’ll want to talk about it. All right?’

So, that’s what this was about. I swallowed hard. This was not a conversation I was ready to have. Why does everything always happen on Mondays? I wanted to just leave. Still, better to get it over with. I knocked.

Mr. Griffiths opened the door for me. He smiled his most reassuring smile and said, ‘Come in, Daniel.’

Mr. Hugh and Mrs. Penn sat behind the desk. In front of it were two chairs, and Griffiths sat down in one of them, gesturing to the other. I sat down gingerly, fidgeting slightly in my seat, and looked from Mr. Hugh to Mrs. Penn, questioningly, pretending I didn’t already know why they’d called me here.

‘Do you know why you’re here, Daniel?’ asked Mrs. Penn gently. I shook my head. ‘Friday was parents’ night, and neither your mother or you showed up. This raised some concern among staff,’ she glanced towards Griffiths, ‘and so a phone call was made to your mother. She appeared not to know about any of what had happened to you, in regards to . . . the bullying.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not sure it’s really bullying,’ I mumbled. ‘Lots of kids have it worse.’

‘Not in this school,’ said Mr. Griffiths softly, though there was an edge to his voice, as though he were biting his tongue not to say more.

‘Either way,’ said Mrs. Penn, ‘it also seemed like perhaps your mother wasn’t taking care of you the way she ought to, and that’s why you’re here. How are things at home, Daniel?’

I shrugged again. ‘Okay. I mean, my mum’s not . . . she’s okay.’

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to Griffiths. Worry was clearly evident on his face. ‘It’s all right, Daniel. I get that you’re reluctant to talk about it, just like you didn’t talk about the bullying, but we want to help you. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘I . . . I don’t need help,’ I said, but it was difficult to lie with Griffiths’s earnest blue eyes on me, and I swallowed and looked down at my hands. ‘There’s nothing to tell. Nothing’s wrong.’

Griffiths sighed and pulled his hand back. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Be honest with us, Daniel.’

I licked my lips and looked up at Mrs. Penn. ‘If, hypothetically, something was wrong,’ I said, ‘what would that mean? What would happen to my mum and me?’

‘Well,’ she seemed to hesitate a bit, ‘we would contact social services, and they would perform an evaluation of your home situation. Depending on the results of that . . . your mother would get some assistance so she can take care of you. Or, if that’s not an option, you might be placed with any other family you’ve got, or, failing that, in foster care.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t have any other family.’

Mr. Hugh frowned. ‘Our files mention a . . .’ He consulted the documents on his desk. ‘James Fowler. Your stepfather, I believe? He still seems to have legal guardianship over you.’

I froze. I couldn’t tell them any more, they mustn’t know. I couldn’t go back there. I just couldn’t. It was impossible. If I went back, I would die. It would kill me. I would kill myself.

‘Daniel.’ Griffiths’s voice came from somewhere far away. ‘Daniel, are you all right?’ I shook in my seat. I wanted to bolt from the room. I never wanted to talk about this again, with anyone. Never ever. There was no way at all. ‘Daniel!’

I didn’t notice until then that I was crying. I felt like I was outside my body, looking at myself from the outside, and the me that I saw was shaking, crying . . . panicking. ‘No!’ he said, the me that wasn’t me, frantically through panicked sobs. ‘Fuck, no, please! I can’t go back there, I can’t, I can’t!’ I watched myself sob pathetically, double over. I stood, stumbled out of the chair to the bin in the corner of the room, fell to my knees, and threw up.

Griffiths was there, next to me, in seconds. He rubbed my back. ‘Get Angela, please!’ he said. ‘Do it!’

When I was empty, I turned towards him, tried to grab hold of him, cling to him, because I needed to cling to something. I needed someone to hold me. But Griffiths took my wrists and lifted my hands away from his shirt, held them fast. ‘Daniel, no,’ he said softly, so quietly Mrs. Penn and Mr. Hugh probably couldn’t hear him properly. Mrs. Penn had picked up the phone. ‘You have no idea how much I’d like to comfort you, but I’m not allowed to do that, okay?’ Griffiths’s expression was pained, and there was something like anger there, directed not at me, but at his own words, the unfairness of them.

Instead, I brought my hands to my face and sobbed into them. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except sit there on the floor shaking, trembling, feeling sick, so sick, but there was nothing left inside me. Still, I turned to the bin again, dry heaved over it. There was nothing. I couldn’t expel this feeling, this ache in my stomach and my heart, which was racing, threatening to jump right out of my chest. I wanted to vomit up my own heart, get it out, away, kill it. Griffiths’s hand was on my back again, though. Soothing.

‘It’s all right, Daniel. It’s okay. You’re okay.’

‘I can’t!’ I moaned. ‘No . . . I want to die . . .’

It’s the last thing I remember saying. After that, it was like I blacked out, lost the power of speech and thought. I remember being pulled to my feet, and then I was in the infirmary, Miss Carter mopping my brow with a cool cloth. I heard Mr. Griffiths’s voice. He appeared to be on the phone, arguing with someone.

‘You need to come get him. He’s your son, he needs you to—!’ A sigh of frustration. ‘Ms. Fowler, my next phone call will be to social services. This isn’t—Yes. I understand. Fine.’ There was a loud clatter as he threw down the phone. I closed my eyes again, pretended to be asleep, and heard him speak again in a soft voice. ‘We can’t send him back there. That’s not a home. She won’t even—’

Mrs. Penn spoke over him, ‘Then what do we do? Can they arrange emergency foster care just like that? Clearly, we can’t send him to his stepfather, judging by his reaction . . .’

I opened my eyes again. ‘Michael,’ I said, and they both turned to me, brows raised. ‘I want Michael. I’ve stayed with him before, when things were bad. His sister, she’s nice, she’s taken care of me . . .’

Griffiths and Mrs. Penn shared a look. ‘Michael Storm?’ asked Griffiths. I nodded. ‘He should be in Grace’s maths class right now if I’m not mistaken,’ he told Mrs. Penn. ‘Perhaps . . . At the very least, he needs a friend right now.’

Mrs. Penn sighed, then nodded. ‘All right. I’ll . . . I’ll send for him.’