Where new writing finds its voice
Short Story

Stoned

Luke Gittos

Illustration

Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, on a pink spacehopper bought for the home by a grateful parent. Up and down, up and down he went, dribbling with joy, his grin interrupted by facial spasms and moaning. Leigh was stimulating himself on a giant inflatable ball with a pig’s face on its front. He had been doing so for two and a half hours.  

Chris watched and waited for it to get boring, but Leigh showed no signs of giving up. About every twenty minutes, Leigh would bounce over to the kitchen door where he would disembark from the spacehopper and start banging on the walls in frustration. He would scream for a second before Chris was up and offering him the spacehopper once again. Leigh would look at the oven that he knew was cooking his dinner, look back at the spacehopper, and jump back on board to begin bouncing once again. The cycle kept him calm and out of harm’s way.  

Chris had been told to encourage this pre-dinner ritual in order that Leigh would resist opening the oven and throwing its contents across the floor. This had happened two weeks earlier when Leigh had become so hungry that he had destroyed his own dinner only minutes before it was due to be served. This led to further frustrations, a staff member with a black eye, and a take-away pizza.  

Chris picked up a book that lay nearby, and attempted to present it to the bouncing boy. Leigh’s eyes were rolled halfway back into his head and so for a moment did not see Chris standing over him. Chris was bored, and could not believe that Leigh did not feel the same. If he smashed up the kitchen and started lashing out then at least he had done something that was not bounce, bounce, bounce. Chris placed his hand on Leigh’s shoulder, bringing his bouncing to an end. Leigh’s eyes slowly rolled back to focus on Chris’s face, and then down to the book. Chris spoke in a whisper, and in a rhythm that mimicked the bouncing ball.

‘Leigh – shall – we read – this?’

Leigh grunted and went back to bouncing. Chris looked over his shoulder to check that they were still alone before he tried again.

‘Leigh – what is – this book – about?’

Another grunt and more bouncing. Now Chris was grunting, mocking Leigh’s indifference. Chris would not have this. This could not be what his job was about. He pulled his arms back, and thrust them into Leigh’s chest, and the bouncing boy fell on to his back. Silence and no more bouncing. Chris was now no longer sure whether that had been the right thing to do. He watched as Leigh got up on to his feet and walked towards him with his familiar blank expression. The joy had gone from his face, replaced with something that Chris had never seen before. Leigh sat at Chris’s feet, and took the book from his hands. Pointing to the front cover he spoke for the first time that day.

‘Ow sie,’ he said. 

‘That’s right, Leigh, outside.’

The picture was of a field with a scarecrow in it. Leigh was curious, and they read together till dinner time.

Later that month Leigh was bouncing in the -garden and had been for two hours. Chris sat watching him again, lost in thought about a saving bond that was about to mature, and the possibility of going on holiday for a very long time. The bruise that had been found on Leigh’s back had prompted a review of Chris’s skills as a key worker. Chris had been placed under supervision and his hours reduced. Now he had more time to read care manuals and tailor his treatments to fall in line with Leigh’s Individual Educational Plan. But he probably would not spend his time doing that. He and Leigh could muddle along until the period of review was over, and then he could work enough hours not to care again.

When Chris had first arrived at the home he had shown Leigh pictures of his family, and played him his favourite songs of all time on a compilation tape he had made especially. He tried to get Leigh interested in football by forcing him to watch his DVD of 101 great goals, cheering into Leigh’s face when the ball went in. He had banned Leigh from watching any kids’ films, and instead showed him David Lynch and Ingmar Bergman. And on his twenty-first birthday Chris took Leigh to the pub, even though he knew that Leigh would get anxious. 

Now Leigh was eating pebbles from the bottom of the garden. Chris could not remember whether or not this situation warranted any form of restraint, and could not remember which form of restraint was currently legal. He told himself he should wait until he started choking, and then the rules went out the window. He took out a crossword he had cut out of the day’s paper and set about filling in the gaps. He was indifferent to Leigh and could even have joined him in his feast of soil and stones.

They hadn’t – prepared him – for that.