A Dark Secret. Casey Watson

blow across the face.

      Mike was obviously quick to act, grabbing Sam up in a bear hug before he could lay hands on anything else to throw, and while Tyler heroically took the blow – in both senses – on the chin, Mike was already deploying the restraint technique we’d been trained in; using his superior strength to physically contain Sam while trying to quell the storm of his temper.

      And what a whirlwind of a thing that temper was. Mike had his arms firmly around Sam, pinning his own to his sides, but I could see he was looking for any opportunity to attack, gnashing his teeth, and trying to get his mouth close enough to bite Mike, while kicking his feet out to try and kick him on the shins. Had he not been just nine – and such a scrap of a thing – it would have been a fearsome sight. As it was it just made me feel very sad.

While Tyler gathered up the batteries and put the remote back together, I went across to see if I could help. ‘Sam, until you stop that silly kicking and biting, Mike can’t let you go,’ I tried. ‘The way you are carrying on, you will hurt yourself, and we don’t want that to happen. We just want you to calm yourself down, okay? So stop yelling and take some deep breaths, please.’

      But the only thing Sam was listening to was his anger, which seemed to be drowning all other sounds out. Eyes squeezed tight shut, he continued to wriggle and squirm. ‘Are you listening, mate?’ Mike asked. ‘You need to stop this, okay? Because I can’t let you go till you do.’

      Mike shuffled back a little, towards the sofa, pulling Sam up onto his lap, speaking softly as he did so despite the heels hammering at his shins. ‘There we go, mate,’ he said, as he cradled and rocked him. ‘That’s better, you’re settling down now. Come on, shhhh, stop your fuss now, that’s it, in and out, take deep breaths.’

      And, bit by bit, once again, the storm began to ebb away. Whether by will or exhaustion, I had no idea, but after ten minutes it appeared to have passed altogether, and once he was limp in Mike’s arms, his eyes finally open, I took a chance – those little feet could pack one heck of a punch – and knelt down in front of him on the carpet.

      ‘Sam, d’you want to talk?’ I asked. ‘About what made you angry?’

      His eyes flicked past me to where Tyler was standing, holding the remote.

      ‘Stupid buttons!’ he said immediately. ‘The stupid buttons make me angry. They’re rubbish buttons,’ he added. ‘They’re just stupid.’

‘They’re just buttons, love,’ I pointed out. ‘Are they really worth getting in such a pickle about? Tell you what, how about Tyler sits down with you after dinner, and goes through what all the different buttons do with you? Would that help, do you think? Though for now, I think you first need to say sorry to him, don’t you?’

      ‘Mum, it’s fine,’ Tyler began. ‘He didn’t mean –’

      ‘Exactly. I didn’t mean to,’ Sam finished for him.

      ‘Nevertheless,’ I said, ‘it hit him, and you were the one who threw it. Which makes it a consequence of an action you took, Sam. Which is something I’d like you to think about, okay? And meanwhile, I’d better get back to the kitchen, or none of us will be getting any tea tonight, will we?’

      Sam’s chin jutted as he looked at me, apparently astonished. ‘I’m allowed tea?’

      ‘Of course you are, mate,’ Mike said. He too took a chance and let his arms fall away. ‘Can’t have a little scrap like you starving, can we?’

      Sam twisted round to look at him. ‘Even though I’m bad? I still get tea?’

      I touched Sam gently on his head. His forehead was damp from his exertions, as was his hair. ‘Of course you get tea, silly. And you’re not bad, love,’ I said. ‘You’re just a little boy who gets angry quite a lot, and we’re going to all have to work together to help you with that. And we will. Though in the meantime’ – I got to my feet and put my hand out – ‘how about you come into the kitchen and help me with the veg, so Mike and Tyler can finish off what they’re doing?’

      Sam managed a smile as he took my hand. ‘Are we having peas?’ he asked. ‘I could count them. I’m good at counting peas.’

I think we all chuckled in unison. ‘I’m not sure we actually need to count them,’ I told him. ‘But yes, if you want peas, we can definitely have peas. But first, are you going to say sorry to Tyler?’

      ‘Oh, yeah, sorry,’ he said. Then trotted off with me, happy as Larry. What a conundrum this little boy was.

I pondered the puzzle of Sam as I finished preparing dinner and, deprived of counting peas, he helped sort out the cutlery instead. Because it was a puzzle. There being no unhappy aftermath to Sam’s violent outbursts – at least so far – was interesting in itself. As had been the case earlier in the day, once Sam was over his anger, it was as if he’d forgotten all about it. No contrition. No regret. But no sullen defiance either. Though he’d been genuinely astonished that he was still going to be fed after what he’d done (which meant he definitely understood we had issues about his behaviour), his own ‘moral compass’ – his personal landscape of what was and wasn’t acceptable – seemed oddly absent. Whereas most kids, even the most damaged, out-of-control kids, had an understanding that their behaviour negatively impacted on others (more often than not, that was precisely why they did it), it almost seemed as if Sam rationalised them on a ‘what’s done is done’ basis. Since he had no problem brushing them off once they were over – and forgetting them completely – it didn’t seem to occur to him that we wouldn’t too. I was no psychologist, but I found Sam’s psychology fascinating. It was as if he was living in the moment, but to the nth degree. So much so that it was as if his previous rages hadn’t even happened.

      Yet, happen they had, and happen they did again. And, over the next twenty-four hours, they happened at regular intervals. Without warning, the slightest thing could tip him over into a raging, yelling bundle of fury. Because the eggs and soldiers hadn’t been set out the same way as yesterday. Because he’d coloured over the lines in the colouring-in book I’d given him. Because someone on Fireman Sam didn’t do what Sam thought he should do. By the time Monday evening came around, I looked as if I’d done a few rounds myself – in a boxing ring with Anthony Joshua.

      ‘We can’t allow this to continue,’ Mike said once we’d put Sam to bed that evening, after another flare-up over some nonsense or other. Yet another episode during which I’d had a fistful of hair grabbed.

      ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’d be tearing my own hair out, but he’s busy doing it for me. I’ll be flipping bald soon, at this rate!’ I felt my scalp, which was so tender that I winced as I touched it. ‘I just wish I could get a handle on his triggers.’

      ‘Sure you’re not just clutching at straws?’ Mike said. ‘Because from what I’ve seen and you’ve described, anything could be a trigger. He’s just in max on-the-edge mode, twenty-four seven. How can we get to the bottom of something we can’t see coming?’

Yet, for all that Mike was right (he had to be – how else to explain the rages?) when he wasn’t flying off the handle Sam was no trouble at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Though I’d been anxious that Tyler would lose his rag sooner or later, when I’d gently probed him about Sam (he was now out for the evening) he’d laughed it all off, apparently genuinely.

      ‘It’s obviously going to be like living with a little cyclone,’ he’d admitted. ‘But as long as he doesn’t touch my stuff I can live with it.’

      ‘Seriously?’ I’d asked. After the troubles we’d had with Miller, I was anxious above anything that we didn’t have a re-run. Happy as I was to take on Sam, it just wouldn’t be fair.

      ‘Seriously,’ he’d reassured me. ‘I know it’s going to sound weird, Mum, but I quite like him. He’s sweet.’

      And though I knew Mike