No Place for Nathan: A True Short Story. Casey Watson

      I was also, I soon became aware, my own worst enemy. And after realising that I was the kind of gal who just couldn’t say no, the head of the school, Mike Moore, informed me that he was hiring another behavioural manager, Jim Dawson. This, he said, was so that one of us could be permanently in situ in the Unit, while the other was free to wander the corridors and sit in on classes where a teacher had reported major disruptions. It also meant I had additional time to do more home visits with parents or guardians; something that was proving really constructive.

      Jim and I had soon become an efficient team. We would alternate who did this, and also work with the teachers, to show them different methods of handling disruptive behaviour, so we could at least partly stem the incoming tide. I got along great with Jim. In his fifties, he was diminutive like me, but also stocky, with a friendly face and a no-nonsense attitude. Having him around made my job so much easier.

      And it was a great job, no doubt about it; something I could really get my teeth into. Together with Jim, I looked after kids from all kinds of backgrounds, sent to the Unit for all sorts of reasons. They could be the bullied or the bully, the distressed and dispossessed, the lazy, the hyperactive, the angry, the apathetic or, in what seemed to be this case, the complete misfit. One thing united them and informed everything I did: they were kids who had troubles and couldn’t cope with school. We currently had 40 of them on our list, too – and usually around 10 in the Unit at any given time.

      Needless to say, no two days were ever the same, and each one – day and child – brought a different set of problems. And though, right now, little Nathan seemed completely sweet and biddable, you didn’t join our numbers for nothing. So, initially, my job would be to observe and assess him, slotting him into the routine and watching him carefully, to see if there were any obvious triggers or situations that would make him flare up and kick off.

      This, in the first couple of days, proved difficult. True to his word, Nathan had obviously taken a shine to me and wanted to be constantly at my side, using any excuse to leave his table and come to sit by me instead.

      Sometimes it would just be to come and smile at me or touch my arm, at which point I’d just acknowledge him and steer him gently back to his group. But at other times, he’d want to linger and I’d have to become firm with him, and it was during these exchanges that I’d get a glimpse of a darker side, as he clearly didn’t respond well to being spoken to sternly. It would be then, having been told in no uncertain terms that he must do as he was told and stay put at his desk like everyone else, that he would stamp his foot and glare and, having returned to his chair, treat me to a look of pure hatred – his lips tight against his teeth, like a dog about to growl, and his eyes narrowing, changing his face completely.

      He’d snap out of it almost as soon as he adopted it, but as we reached the end of his first week it was beginning to become clear that this was a strange and clearly complex little lad.

      He had other, quite arresting behaviours, too. He seemed to have a compulsion to touch and stroke certain women. I couldn’t exactly categorise it – there was no particular type or trigger that I could see, but he was very particular about which women he was drawn to. He also seemed to like disrupting other children if they were playing or working quietly. To do this, he’d usually cry out that someone had just called him a name, then proceed to hit out at or kick the unfortunate victim, who almost always, I quickly established, had not said a word.

      He was also without fear; he had no anxiety about tackling his bigger, stronger classmates. He’d take on anyone, regardless of their size. He’d provoke the boys, too – never a good idea, if you’re in a behaviour unit – by stroking them as he passed, fluttering his eyelashes and pouting his lips, and saying things like ‘You think I’m sexy, don’t ya?’ and ‘Ooh, I know you want me!’

      Needless to say, this went down badly. The other lads I had in with me at the time, particularly James and Dillon, would swear at him and threaten to batter him, which of course caused disruption, and I began to realise why he was a difficult boy to have in class. Nathan himself, at this point, would become seriously distressed, and it would be a good 30 minutes – with him mostly sobbing hysterically – before I could quieten him down and get the group back on track again.

      That was the most interesting thing, I decided – this abrupt change in mood. I’d catch him out, give him detention, perhaps, and get the evil eye from him, but within a moment, he was usually back to being angelic, particularly if there was no one else around. It just didn’t appear to sink in with him that he may have annoyed me or upset me. It would be an interesting process, I decided, getting to understand what made him tick and, if I could manage to do so, to help him gain insight and control over his behaviours.

      Interesting, and perhaps something of a multi-faceted challenge, as I was to realise that Friday afternoon. It was a couple of minutes before the final afternoon bell went – home time for the kids and finishing-up time for the staff, before a much-looked-forward-to break over the weekend. I’d had Jim with me for most of the afternoon and we’d been working on conflict resolution with the group; a drama-based lesson where they would act out various scenarios that could lead to an argument, and we’d look at solutions that wouldn’t end in a fight or an exclusion.

      The going-home routine was the same every day, just as it tends to be in schools everywhere. And today it was Jim who was directing operations.

      ‘Right,’ he said, as the bell sounded. ‘Stop what you’re doing, tidy your area and put your things away quietly, then get your coats and line up by the door.’

      Pens began going into pencil cases and chairs started scraping back – so far, just an ordinary end to the day – but then we both became aware of Nathan, who’d moved only in as much as he’d sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Do you have a problem with that, Nathan?’ asked Jim.

      I saw the strange look come across Nathan’s face even before he spoke. ‘Yeah, I do, you ugly motherfucker,’ he said, grinning nastily.

      I was used to his kamikaze approach to dealing with bigger, tougher boys but was genuinely aghast to hear him speaking like this to Jim.

      The other kids started to giggle and nudge each other as they prepared to leave, and Jim took the sensible step of dismissing them. ‘Okay, you lot, you can go now,’ he told them. ‘Have a nice weekend, and we will see you on Monday.’

      I added my own farewell, herding them out, aware of their disappointed faces at being asked to leave just as the entertainment was about to begin. If that had been Nathan’s plan – to grab some attention – it had backfired.

      I shut the door then, turned back and, after exchanging a glance and some raised eyebrows with Jim, asked Nathan gently if something was troubling him.

      He didn’t look at me. Instead he put his hands in front of his face, as if to create a barrier between us. He then turned his face towards Jim. ‘It’s you I’m talking to!’ he shouted. ‘You God-damned cocksucker!’

      Jim calmly placed a hand on each hip. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t speak to me like that, young man,’ he said mildly.

      Nathan glared at him. ‘I just did!’

      ‘Or,’ Jim continued, ‘I might have to ring your dad.’

      ‘Ha!’ Nathan threw back. ‘You wouldn’t dare! My dad is seven foot six and the last teacher that rang him got thrown out of a window and beaten up, you stupid prick!’

      I was obviously not meant to take part in this conversation so I simply stood by and watched, bemused. As, I suspected, was Jim. It wasn’t as if Nathan had been disciplined for anything. This outburst seemed to have come entirely out of the blue. The question was, Why? Where had it come from?

      ‘Why are you mad with me, Nath?’ he asked quietly.

      ‘That’s not my fucking name, arsehole,’ came the response.

      ‘Sorry,’ Jim answered, ‘I should have said “Nathan”, shouldn’t I?’

      Nathan shook his head