Page 1 of Saint
The kid, John, in the boxing ring, is one of the nicest, friendliest ones that visits the club from one of the after-school projects. I have my concerns about him, the bruises that mark his body haven’t come from here or look like the general roughhousing kids do. No, his come from being hurt, hit, and he’s always tight-lipped about them, putting them down to being clumsy. But we both know that’s not true. Today, there are fresh additions to the colourful collection that I don’t like the look of.
I’ve been running after school activities for the youth around here to get in from the streets and let off some steam in a structured and safe space. The area around us is the poor part of the city. The back-to-back houses, the low-employment, and the latch-key kids are always shouted about by pointless politicians around election time, making countless claims to improve and regenerate the streets and houses, but then never do. Today, there are ten twelve-to-fourteen-year-old boys filling the large hall with laughter and grunts as they spar or work in the weights corner. I give them the order five minutes before thesession closes. “Okay, everyone, time to wrap it up.” The two in the boxing ring laugh as they bump gloved fists and hug. Then John’s smile falters, sliding away as the blood drains from his face. I follow the direction of his eyes and find the source of his fear. A tall, heavyset man, with a balding head and crudely drawn, faded tattoos over his arms which disappear under the grimy tank top.
“You’re supposed to hit the fucker, Singen, not hug him like some queer-boy.” He sneers, then with a sweep of his arm, he motions for the boy to get out of the ring. “Get your shit together. I need you to do something for me.”
As soon as the lad is clear from the ropes, he’s pulled away. The hand on the boy’s arm fits the bruises, confirming all I need to know about where and who is handing out the violence. “Steady up, mate. Let me get the gloves from him.”
The smell of stale cigarettes, alcohol, and BO waft from the angry man, overpowering the gym’s own smell of clean sweat and leather. “Get it done quickly then.” With a heavy shove, the kid stumbles into me. Gently easing him upright, we head to the corner and undo his laces.
“Do you need help, John?”
He shrugs, his eyes downcast, looking at the tape around his knuckles. “Nothing you can do about it.”
“There’s plenty I can do. Is he your dad? And the bruises come from him?” The burn from his father’s eyes is over both of us, but I’m not the guy he wants to mess with. This is my gym, and I protect the people using it.
Another shrug, then nod. “I’ll sort this for you.”
Before he can reply, we’re interrupted by his father’s shout. “Singen, now!”
The image of John being dragged out, berated by the person supposed to be loving and protecting him stays fixed in my head as I run through the clean-up. Once I’m done, and in my office, I can make the call. “Hi, it’s me.”
“This is a nice surprise.” Robin’s happiness makes me smile.
“You won’t think so in a minute. I need to report a case of abuse.”
My partner immediately goes into professional mode. Robin is the head of social services for our borough, working tirelessly, and often thanklessly, to help and protect the vulnerable. I explain everything I’ve noticed in the past and what happened today. “One thing that confused me was his name. We’ve always called him John. But the man who collected him today called him Singen. I’ve no clue what that was about.”
“Ahh, St John Sinclair. I know who you’re talking about. Okay, leave this with me,” Robin says with a weariness to his voice that I don’t like. It means this kid is already on the at-risk register.
John, or whatever his name is, doesn’t show up for the next three sessions. My concern for him increases, and when I bring it up with Robin, he tells me that it’s confidential, but the boy is okay. I trust Robin with my life, we’ve been together for five years, and while our relationship isn’t a secret, it’s not talked about.
“I’m in the kitchen,” I call out when I hear the front door open then close. It’s unusual for Robin not to reply, but I can hear him in the hallway. “Robin?” As I walk out to see him, I grab a tea towel and wipe my hands.
When I see him, Robin is taking off his coat, hanging it on the overstuffed rack on the wall by the stairs, and he’s not alone. With him is a scared-looking scrawny kid that I can’t wait to feed. In a death-like grip is a scruffy backpack that I have a horrible feeling is full of all the things he owns. The large purpling bruise on his jaw and cheek are nothing compared to the tear-filled eyes staring at me, looking more relieved than afraid.
“Kip. This is Saint, he’ll be staying with us.” Emphasising the kid’s new name.
“Saint, can you come here, please?” Those words still sent a ripple of fear through me, even though they’re now spoken kindly and asked not demanded. I expect it to be the moment that everything here will be over. That I’m being sent back to my dad. Nothing this good can last, especially since there are two more kids here. Knox arrived about four months after I did, he’s a scrawny half-starved, little kid a few years younger than me. Drake was next, he’s only twelve, and he was a bag of bones and bruises. His story is worse than mine, but Kip always tells us that it’s not ours to tell.
I moved schools after moving in—it wasn’t safe to keep me in the one near my dad. Robin has been in charge of all my care issues, and I’m officially emancipated for my dad’s care. It’s much better at the new school. I haven’t been picked on or laughed at for looking like shit. Maybe because I have decent clothes now, not ones I had to scrounge from a charity shop.
Robin and Kip are amazing, they don’t shout, threaten me, or just ignore me. They ask about my day, they help mewith my homework, and I still get to go to the gym and have my friends there.
I walk into the kitchen. It’s a huge room with a long wooden table that can have about ten people sit there. This is the heart of the house. It’s warm and comforting, mainly because Robin loves cooking and baking. It always smells amazing; now it smells of cookies, and I spy a plate of them on the table. Kip is sitting down with Knox and Drake, and they’re already munching on the chocolate chip cookies.
“Hey, don’t eat them all.” I try to sound jokey, but the words stick in my throat. Kip notices, and he tips his head, gesturing for me to sit down.
When Robin sits next to me, I know it’s going to be bad.
“I don’t want to go back,” I blurt out. Tears prickle my eyes, making me blink them away before they dare to break free. I’m not going to cry in front of them, but I’m scared to go back. My dad will be so angry with me. I’ve almost forgotten how much being punched hurts, but right now, I can feel them again. “I won’t go. I’ll run away if you send me back there. I’m sixteen now, I can look after myself.”
It's too late, and a tear slips free, followed by more. Swiping them away just seem to make it worse. When Robin puts his arm around my shoulders, I shrug him away. My chair scrapes over the wood floor as I stand up to leave.
“Saint, stop.” Kip’s voice is firm, making me stop. “Look at me, please.”
Robin is behind me. His hand touches my shoulder gently, and I flinch, not able to look at either of them.
“Saint,” he says again. When I turn to him, he looks sad. “You’re not going anywhere, kiddo. I promised you you’d never have to go back there, and I meant it. You’re stuck with us.”
