Finding Stevie: Part 2 of 3: A teenager in crisis. Cathy Glass

confirming that Stevie wasn’t here, they’d be looking for any clues that might suggest where he could be. I showed them into our kitchen-diner first and they had a look around, opened and closed a few cupboard doors and looked out the back door. As we returned into the hall we passed the walk-in cupboard under the stairs and the lead officer paused and asked, ‘What’s in there?’

      ‘A mess,’ Lucy quipped. I opened the door so they could see in. It held the vacuum cleaner, broom, dustpan and brush, a no-longer-used gerbil cage, shopping bags, bric-à-brac and anything we didn’t use but didn’t want to throw out.

      Satisfied, the officers followed us into the front room.

      ‘Does Stevie use that computer?’ the second officer asked, referring to the PC.

      ‘He hasn’t done,’ I said.

      They looked around and then Adrian headed our little procession upstairs to Stevie’s room. ‘It’s very tidy for a fourteen-year-old lad,’ the lead officer commented as we went in.

      ‘Yes, Stevie keeps his room neat,’ I agreed.

      They gave this room a more thorough search and looked under the bed, pulled back the duvet, checked inside the pillowcase, drew back the curtains, and opened and closed the drawers. Stevie’s make-up, nail varnish and floral cosmetics bag were in the top drawer, but they didn’t comment. Only when they opened the wardrobe door did their expressions change and I saw them do a double-take. ‘They’re bright,’ the lead officer said, glancing at me. ‘Does Stevie wear these?’

      ‘Yes, sometimes,’ I said.

      ‘And the make-up in the drawer?’

      ‘Yes, but not for school. He’s in his school uniform.’ I felt Stevie’s privacy was being invaded, but then again, if he hadn’t gone missing the police wouldn’t be here rummaging through his private belongings. Until now I hadn’t mentioned gender, as it hadn’t seemed necessary, but as they examined his clothes and checked the pockets I thought I should say something. Lucy got in first.

      ‘Stevie is gender-fluid,’ she said proudly. ‘That means he doesn’t have a fixed gender and likes to dress femininely sometimes. I’ve helped him with his make-up.’

      ‘He’s gay?’ the lead officer asked me.

      ‘No, he’s undecided,’ I said. ‘Although he did go to an LGBT nightclub before he came to live with us.’

      ‘At fourteen?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He tutted. ‘Do you know which one?’

      ‘No, sorry. I don’t.’

      They checked down the side of his wardrobe, looked in a carrier bag hanging on the back of the door and the pockets of his dressing gown, then, with a final glance around, the second officer said, ‘There’s nothing in here.’

      We all came out and I showed them round the landing to our bedrooms. When we came to Paula’s room I knocked on her door and stuck my head round. She was propped up on her bed, reading. ‘The police need to have a look in here,’ I said. She got off her bed and stood beside it, clearly embarrassed, as both officers came in and looked around. Although it was necessary, it was an imposition. They thanked her on their way out and I showed them my bedroom and finally the bathroom.

      ‘There’s nowhere he can hide in there,’ Lucy said pointedly.

      The junior officer smiled at her. ‘You can never be sure.’

      Downstairs again, we stood in the hall as the officers prepared to leave. They confirmed that Stevie’s details had already been circulated, and we should contact them if he got in touch or returned home, which they felt sure he would do before long. They said they would visit his grandparents; I didn’t tell them what Peggy had said about not going there until morning. It seemed rude and I doubted that waking Kiri and Liam would be a factor in timetabling their visit, with their busy work schedule.

      It was after 10.30 by the time the officers had left. Sammy came out from his hiding place behind the sofa and curled up in his basket, and by eleven o’clock we were all upstairs getting ready for bed. I left my mobile phone switched on and within reach on my bedside cabinet in case Stevie phoned, then lay in the dark running through the day’s events and wondering where on earth he could be. Suddenly I was startled by the landline ringing. I quickly grabbed the handset. ‘Cathy?’ It was Peggy wanting to know what had happened when the police had visited. I told her, said I’d phone her when there was any news and wound up the conversation. I think she would have liked to talk for longer, but it was nearly midnight and I was shattered.

      I lay in the dark again with my thoughts buzzing like trapped flies, and tried to imagine where Stevie might be. My bedside clock clicked away the time: 12.30, 1.07, 1.43. Then I must have dropped off, for suddenly I was awake again, and aware my mobile was ringing.

      ‘Yes?’ I said immediately, answering it.

      ‘Is that Cathy Glass, Stevie’s foster carer?’ a male voice asked.

      ‘Yes.’ My heart began thumping wildly as I sat bolt upright and switched on the bedside lamp.

      ‘It’s one of the officers who visited you earlier. We’ve found Stevie. He’s in the car with us.’

      ‘Thank goodness.’ I breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘Is he all right?’

      ‘Just a bit cold. But there is a problem.’ My stomach churned.

      ‘What?’

      ‘He doesn’t want to come back to you.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘He’s not saying. He just says he can’t.’

      ‘I don’t understand. Can I speak to him?’

      ‘No, he doesn’t want to talk to you.’

      Not only was I hurt, but it seemed to reflect badly on me as a foster carer that Stevie didn’t want to come home or even talk to me.

      ‘Has he given you any idea why he ran away?’ I asked.

      ‘No. We’re going to contact the social services now. They’ll have to find him a bed for the night.’

      ‘What about his grandparents? Can’t he stay there for tonight?’

      ‘He says he doesn’t want to go there either.’

      ‘You’ve spoken to them?’

      ‘Yes. They know he’s safe.’

      ‘Where did you find Stevie?’ I asked.

      ‘At the bus terminus.’

      ‘Was he going to catch a bus?’

      ‘No, it was just somewhere to shelter. But the heating goes off in the waiting room at midnight when the last bus leaves, so it was cold. I need to phone the social services now, but at least you know he’s safe,’ the officer said.

      ‘Yes, thank you. Please tell Stevie I would like him to come home. He’s not in any trouble.’

      ‘Will do.’

      I dropped my phone beside me on the bed and leant back on the headboard with a very heavy heart. I’d failed Stevie. What had started off so positively, with him quickly settling in, being able to work with his grandparents and the likelihood of him staying with us for at least three years, was ending in failure, and for reasons I didn’t know. I wasn’t being dramatic: a young person running away and then refusing to return to their foster carer was a failure; it couldn’t be looked upon any other way. I was the adult, Stevie was the minor, so it was my responsibility to make it work. That Stevie had refused to go to his grandparents didn’t lessen my feelings of failure; indeed, I had even more concerns now. Stevie would be placed with an emergency foster carer for the night and then be