Knox's Lost Brother

“Get the fuck away from him.”

I can hear his heavy footsteps; they stumble a bit, which means he’s really drunk tonight.

Not the usual just a bit drunk, the one with some slurred speech and tears of regret afterwards.

I know he doesn’t regret a thing. How do I know?

Because it’s always planned, the nights when his wife is on a late shift, the looks as he downs can after can of the cheapest, strongest lager he can buy.

Or it’s him stroking himself over the fly of his oily jeans.

I shrink down in my bed, the covers coming up to my eyes.

Why me? Why does this happen to me? There has to be better foster homes or children’s homes.

I should run away. I can’t, though; I can’t because of Dean.

He’s only two years older than me, but he knows everything.

He keeps me safe; he keeps him away from me.

Sometimes by letting him do to him what he wants to do to me.

It’s not the first home that has had me in this situation.

I lost my virginity too many years ago, and the men seem to know this.

My conclusion is the social workers know what goes on, even placing kids like me with men like him.

Thank god! Dean’s here; he’ll make him go away. I’m trying to be as small as possible. All I want to do is shrink away from him. I don’t want him to touch me anymore. He’s dirty, and his breath smells horrid.

“If you touch him again, it’ll be the last time you hold your cock in your hand.” Dean seems to growl at Wayne and steps closer. I’m peeping over the sheet at them both as Wayne turns, and it looks like he’s going to hit Dean.

“Stop!” I shout, pushing the sheet off my face. “Don’t hit him. It’s okay. I’ll do what you want. Dean, he’ll leave us alone afterwards.”

“See, the kid likes it, so just fuck off before I break your fucking face.” Wayne turns back to me and steps closer. “Roll over, kid, you know what to do.”

I’m frozen in place. I know what I said, but I can’t. Not again. But Wayne stops, his eyes go wide as Dean stands close, really close. There’s something in his hand. A knife: Dean has got a knife.

“Take one step closer and I use this.” This isn’t a threat. Oh no. My best friend, my protector is stating a fact. Wayne knows this too.

Wayne gets out of Dean’s grip and moves away from me. “I’m gonna make that call, and you’ll be out of here. They’ll split you up this time, especially when I tell them what you were doing to the pathetic runt.” He sniffs loudly, the phlegm thick and wet when he coughs and spits it on the floor.

As soon as he’s out of the room, Dean is by my side. “He means it. He’s going to get us separated. Have you got your bag?”

I nod and push the covers down my legs. I’m wearing my jeans. I wasn’t going to make it easy for Wayne. Dean told me how to make a go bag, one that had enough of my belongings so that I could run away. I pull a jumper on and find my trainers. I nod again. “I’m ready.”

It doesn’t take long for us to hear the door-rattling snores as he passes out on his bed. “Where are we going to go? We’ve got no money, and the police will be looking for us,” I say as we run out of the house. I’m not even sure if we’ve closed the door.

“I’ve got a friend that will let us crash with him. He’s like us, the thrown away kids. The police won’t give a shit about us. We’re just two more runaways.”

It’s Dean’s turn to go out to get us something to eat, which means he’ll find someone who wants their dick sucked for a fiver.

I hate that we’ve come to this: living on the street or in an empty building to sleep in.

I know we’ve not been missed or looked for—the cops pass us by without a glance, let alone any questions.

Something is wrong. It’s been hours, and Dean isn’t back yet.

I don’t want to go out in case I miss him, but we didn’t have anything to eat yesterday, and I’m so hungry.

I scribble a note on a piece of cardboard from the floor.

This empty shop has been our home for a couple of days.

He’ll look for me when he makes it back.

I squeeze through the window in the tiny toilet room.

There’s a bar a couple of streets down. It’s a rough, downtrodden place, and I can usually attract some bloke, get some money off him.

It’s never a gay bar since those guys aren’t interested in some half-starved kid.

But the straight guys with a few beers in just like him.

It doesn’t take me long to see a pissed-up bloke stumble out. “Hey, mister, you got any spare change?”

He looks me up and down, and his eyes seem to clear from the blurry drunk state to a greedy, mean look. I know I’ve got him.

“Wassinit for me?” he slurs, his words all strung together.

“I can suck your cock for a fiver, if you like. Or you can fuck me for ten.” I doubt he can keep his dick hard for him to fuck me, but the glint in his eyes says that’s what he wants.

“Get down ‘ere.” He points to the dark alley way at the side of the pub where there’s only the huge rubbish bins, the ones on wheels. I’ve hidden behind them often enough, as well as checking them for food, especially the ones at supermarkets.

I follow him, glancing over my shoulder one more time. He’s already fumbling with his belt when I reach him. “Money first,” I hold out my hand, but he slaps it away.

“Fuck off, you’ll run.” He pushes me down to my knees and pulls my face into his groin.

I nearly gag at the smell. He pulls his dick free, and it’s as limp as days old lettuce.

There’s no way that’s getting hard. I try not to vomit as I attempt to get it hard by using my hand as well as my mouth.

It’s pointless; even the bloke knows, and he pushes me back, making me fall on my arse.

“Fucking useless,” he mutters but does give me a five-pound note.

I snatch it and think he’s going to let me go. Nope, this wanker isn’t finished and jerks himself until a measly amount of cum dribbles out of the slit. He stumbles away, and I stay put. I wouldn’t put it past him to be waiting so he can get his fiver back.

It must be five minutes before I think it’s safe enough to leave the alley. I was wrong, and his fist hits me square on my face. I drop to the ground, and he starts to kick. I curl up as tight as I can and hope he runs out of steam.

Someone shouts out for him to stop, and to my surprise, he does. Footsteps pound the pavement, only stopping when they reach me. Car doors open and slam shut, and the air is full of shouting.

Two hands rest on my shoulder and back, coaxing me to unfurl myself. When I lift my head, I groan and drop it back down. The cops. I’m screwed.

After refusing to go to the hospital, I’m taken to the police station and bundled into an interview room—or at least I’m guessing that’s what it is. There’s a small table with four chairs, two on either side.

A small woman comes in; she’s carrying two cups of hot drinks. One smells like coffee, and the other is hot chocolate. “I thought you might like a drink. I’m Sharron.” She places the hot chocolate in front of me.

I want it, like really want it, but I want to get out of here more. “I want to leave. You can’t hold me.” I don’t know if that’s true, but I say it anyway. I pull the scratchy blanket around my shoulders.

“It’s just a few questions. What’s your name, sweetheart.”

I think about everything that’s happened to me to finally end up here.

I think about the parents that wanted drugs more than me.

The foster homes I’ve been in that have never lasted long because I was too quiet or I didn’t fit in with the other kids, or the ones when the father is way too interested in me, and the wife knows.

Any excuse to pass me on when I wasn’t interested in their lives.

Then the last one, the one that set me on this path.

Wayne and his private visits in the night. “Where’s Dean?”

She smiles but doesn’t answer. “Can you tell me your name, please? I won’t know what to call you, if you don’t.”

I think of one of the last things Dean said to me. “Knox,” I tell her because my life has been nothing but hard knocks.

“How old are you, Knox? Is there someone we can call for you?”

I don’t say anything else, and she doesn’t try either. After a long while, there’s a knock on the door, and when Sharron gets up to open it, I lean to look past her and see a new guy. He doesn’t look like a policeman. I don’t know why I think that, but he’s more relaxed. Less uptight.

He walks in and takes the second seat opposite me; Sharron sits back in hers. “Hello, Knox, my name is Robin Foster. I’m a social worker and a foster parent. I thought you’d like to get out of here. What do you think?”

“I think hell to the fucking no. I’ve had my fill of both of those. You’re nothing but interfering busy bodies or perverts who like to fuck the kids they get paid to look after.” I sit back in my chair, my arms over my chest, feeling very satisfied with myself.

“I’m sorry you think that. You must’ve had some dreadful experiences, but I’m not like that.

You don’t have to believe me, but if you’re prepared to take a chance, I’ll prove you wrong.

I have one other teen staying with me, so you won’t be alone.

What do you say? You’ll have your own room that locks. ”

I shrug, not wanting to look too interested.

The idea of my own room sounds good, sleeping rough has been hard, so hard sometimes I wanted to just go back into a children’s home.

I’m constantly looking over my shoulder to stay under the radar.

“I don’t believe you. Do you know how many people like you have said that, and it’s always been a fucking lie?

Too fucking many. Anyway, I need to find my brother.

He’s the only one that’s ever looked after me.

I’m fourteen, and the first time one of the foster “Dads””—I put dad in speech marks—“forced himself on me, I was seven. Fucking seven! So, no thank you. I’m better off just me and Dean. ”