Finally they had told him he was leaving. A suitcase had appeared, packed with clothes that Gwenda must have sent from home. After a three-hour journey in an ordinary car – not even a police car – he had found himself here. The rain was still lashing against the windows, obscuring the view. He could hear it hammering against the glass, as if demanding to be let in. It seemed that the whole outside world had dissolved and the only things remaining were the five people, here, in this room.
On the far left was his aunt, Gwenda Davis. She was dabbing at her eyes with a paper tissue, causing her mascara to smudge – there was a dirty brown streak all the way down one side of her face. Detective Superintendent Stephen Mallory sat next to her, looking the other way. The third person was a woman magistrate. Matt had only met her for the first time today. She was about sixty years old, smartly dressed and a little severe- looking. She wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a look of disapproval that had, over the years, become permanent. The fourth person was Matt’s social worker, an untidy, grey-haired woman about ten years younger than the magistrate. Her name was Jill Hughes and she had been assigned to Matt when he was eleven. She had worked with him ever since and privately thought of him as her greatest failure.
It was the magistrate who was talking.
“Matthew, you have to understand that this was a very cowardly crime and one that involved violence,” she was saying. The magistrate had a very precise, clipped manner of speaking, as if every word was of the utmost importance. “Your associate, Kelvin Johnson, will be sent to the Crown Court and he will almost certainly be sentenced to imprisonment in a young offenders’ institution. He is seventeen. You, of course, are younger. But even so, you are above the age of criminal responsibility. If you went before the court, I suspect you might well be given a Section 91. This means you would be locked up for perhaps three years in either a secure training centre or a local authority secure children’s home.”
She paused and opened a file that was on the table in front of her. The sound of the pages turning seemed very loud in the sudden silence.
“You are an intelligent boy,” she went on. “I have the results of the tests you have been given during the past week. Although your school results have never done you any credit, you seem to have a good grasp of the basic skills – maths and literacy. Your psychological report suggests that you have a positive and a creative mind. It seems very strange that you should have chosen to drift into truancy and petty crime.
“But then, of course, we have to take into account your unfortunate background. You lost your parents suddenly and at a very early age – and this must have caused you enormous distress. I think it’s fairly clear to all of us that the problems in your young life may have resulted from this one, tragic event. Even so, Matthew, you must find the strength to overcome these problems. If you continue down the path you have been following, there is a very real chance that you will end up in prison.”
Matt wasn’t really listening. He was trying to, but the words sounded distant and irrelevant… like an announcer in a station where he didn’t want to catch a train. He couldn’t believe that this woman was talking to him. Instead, he listened to the rain, beating against the windows. The rain seemed to tell him more.
“There is a new government programme that has been designed specifically for people like you,” the magistrate went on. “The truth is, Matthew, that nobody wants to see young people sent into care. It’s expensive – and anyway, we don’t have enough places. That is why the government recently created the LEAF Project. Liberty and Education Achieved through Fostering. You can think of it, if you like, as turning over a new leaf.”
“I’ve already been fostered once” – Matt glanced at Gwenda, who twitched in her seat – “and it wasn’t exactly a success.”
“That’s certainly true,” the magistrate agreed. “And I’m afraid Ms Davis no longer feels able to look after you. She’s had enough.”
“Really?” Matt said scornfully.
“I did what I could!” Gwenda cried. She twisted the tissue into her eye. “You were never grateful. You were never nice. You never even tried.”
The magistrate coughed and Gwenda glanced up briefly then fell silent. “And I’m afraid your social worker, Miss Hughes, feels much the same,” she went on. “I have to tell you, Matthew, that you’ve left us with no other alternative. LEAF is your last chance to redeem yourself.”
“What is LEAF?” Matt asked. He suddenly wanted to get out of this room. He didn’t care where they sent him.
“LEAF is a fostering programme.” Jill Hughes had taken over. She was a small woman, half-hidden by the table behind which she was sitting. In fact she was the wrong size for her job. She had spent her whole life dealing with aggressive criminals, most of whom were much bigger than her. “We have a number of volunteers living in remote parts of the country-”
“There are fewer temptations in the countryside,” the magistrate cut in.
“All of them are well away from urban areas,” Jill Hughes continued. “They take on young people like yourself and offer an old-fashioned home environment. They provide food, clothes, companionship and, most important of all, discipline. The L in LEAF stands for Liberty – but it has to be earned.”
“Your new foster parent may ask you to help with light manual labour,” the magistrate said.
“You mean… I have to work?” Matt said, his voice full of contempt.
“There’s nothing wrong with that!” The magistrate bristled. “Working in the countryside is good for your health, and many children would be delighted to be out there with the animals and the crops on a farm. Nobody can force you to join the LEAF Project, Matthew. You have to volunteer. But I have to say, this is a real opportunity for you. And I’m sure you’ll find it preferable to the alternative.”
“Locked up for three years.” That was what she had said.
“How long will I have to stay there?” he asked.
“A minimum of one year. After that, we’ll reassess the situation.”
“You may like it,” Stephen Mallory said. He was trying to sound upbeat. “It’s a whole new start, Matt. A chance to make new friends.”
But Matt had his doubts. “What happens if I don’t like it?” he asked.
“We’ll be in constant touch with the foster parent,” the magistrate explained. “The parent has to make a weekly report to the police and your aunt will visit you as soon as you feel ready. There’ll be a settling-in period of three months, but after that she’ll see you every month.”
“She’ll provide an interface between the foster parent and the social services,” Jill Hughes said.
“I don’t know how I’ll afford it,” Gwenda muttered. “I mean, if there are going to be travelling expenses. And who’s going to look after Brian while I’m away? I have responsibilities, you know…”
Her voice trailed away. The room was suddenly silent, apart from the sound of the traffic and the rain hitting the windows.
“All right.” Matt shrugged. “You can send me wherever you want to. I don’t really care. Anything would be better than being with her and Brian.”
Gwenda flushed. Mallory cut in before she could speak. “We won’t abandon you, Matt,” he promised. “We’ll make sure you’re looked after.”
But the magistrate was annoyed. “You have absolutely nothing to complain about,” she snapped. She looked at Matt over the top of her glasses. “Quite frankly, you should be grateful you’re being given this opportunity. And I should warn you. If your foster parent is unhappy with your progress, if you abuse the kindness you’re being shown in any way, then you will be returned to us. And then you will find yourself in an institution. You won’t be given a second chance. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand.” Matt glanced at the windows. The light was almost lost behind the grey, endlessly moving curtain of water. “So when do I get to meet my foster parent?”
“Her name is Jayne Deverill,” the social worker said. “And she should be here any minute now.”
They were mending the escalators at Holborn tube station and as the woman rose up to street level, sparks from the oxy-acetylene torches flashed and flickered behind her. But Jayne Deverill didn’t notice them. She was standing completely still, clutching a leather handbag under her arm, staring at a point a few metres in front of her as if she was disgusted by her surroundings.
She fed her ticket into the barrier and watched as it sprang open. Someone knocked into her and for a second something dark flashed in her eyes. But she forced herself to keep control. She was wearing ugly, old-fashioned leather shoes and she walked awkwardly, as if, perhaps, there was something wrong with her legs.
Mrs Deverill was a small woman, at least fifty years old, with white hair, cut short. Her skin was not yet
