Saint (Foster Bros #1)

Beginning

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 the session 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.