Raven's Gate

THE LEAF PROJECT

Matt, dressed in his own clothes, sat in a chair facing the four people who were examining him from the other side of a long wooden table. It was the sort of room where people got married… or perhaps divorced. Not uncomfortable, but spare and formal with wood panelling on the walls and portraits of officials – probably all dead by now – in gold frames. He was in London, although he wasn’t exactly sure where. It had been raining too hard to see much out of the car windows, and he had been driven straight to the door and shown up a flight of stairs into this modern, unattractive building. There had been no time for sightseeing.

A week had passed since Matt’s arrest, and in that time he had been interviewed, examined, assessed and, for many hours, left on his own. He had filled in papers that were like exams except that they didn’t seem to have any point. “2, 8, 14, 20… What is the next number in the sequence?” And: “How many spelling misteaks are their in this sentence?” Different men and women – doctors, psychologists – had asked him to talk about himself. He had been shown blobs on pieces of paper. “What do you see, Matthew? What does the shape make you think about?” And there had been games – word association, stuff like that.

Finally they had told him he was leaving. A suitcase had appeared, packed with clothes that Gwenda must have sent from home. After a three-hour journey in an ordinary car – not even a police car – he had found himself here. The rain was still lashing against the windows, obscuring the view. He could hear it hammering against the glass, as if demanding to be let in. It seemed that the whole outside world had dissolved and the only things remaining were the five people, here, in this room.

On the far left was his aunt, Gwenda Davis. She was dabbing at her eyes with a paper tissue, causing her mascara to smudge – there was a dirty brown streak all the way down one side of her face. Detective Superintendent Stephen Mallory sat next to her, looking the other way. The third person was a woman magistrate. Matt had only met her for the first time today. She was about sixty years old, smartly dressed and a little severe-looking. She wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a look of disapproval that had, over the years, become permanent. The fourth person was Matt’s social worker, an untidy, grey-haired woman about ten years younger than the magistrate. Her name was Jill Hughes and she had been assigned to Matt when he was eleven. She had worked with him ever since and privately thought of him as her greatest failure.

It was the magistrate who was talking.

“Matthew, you have to understand that this was a very cowardly crime and one that involved violence,” she was saying. The magistrate had a very precise, clipped manner of speaking, as if every word was of the utmost importance. “Your associate, Kelvin Johnson, will be sent to the Crown Court and he will almost certainly be sentenced to imprisonment in a young offenders’ institution. He is seventeen. You, of course, are younger. But even so, you are above the age of criminal responsibility. If you went before the court, I suspect you might well be given a Section 91. This means you would be locked up for perhaps three years in either a secure training centre or a local authority secure children’s home.”

She paused and opened a file that was on the table in front of her. The sound of the pages turning seemed very loud in the sudden silence.

“You are an intelligent boy,” she went on. “I have the results of the tests you have been given during the past week. Although your school results have never done you any credit, you seem to have a good grasp of the basic skills – maths and literacy. Your psychological report suggests that you have a positive and a creative mind. It seems very strange that you should have chosen to drift into truancy and petty crime.

“But then, of course, we have to take into account your unfortunate background. You lost your parents suddenly and at a very early age – and this must have caused you enormous distress. I think it’s fairly clear to all of us that the problems in your young life may have resulted from this one, tragic event. Even so, Matthew, you must find the strength to overcome these problems. If you continue down the path you have been following, there is a very real chance that you will end up in prison.”

Matt wasn’t really listening. He was trying to, but the words sounded distant and irrelevant… like an announcer in a station where he didn’t want to catch a train. He couldn’t believe that this woman was talking to him. Instead, he listened to the rain, beating against the windows. The rain seemed to tell him more.

“There is a new government programme that has been designed specifically for people like you,” the magistrate went on. “The truth is, Matthew, that nobody wants to see young people sent into care. It’s expensive – and anyway, we don’t have enough places. That is why the government recently created the LEAF Project. Liberty and Education Achieved through Fostering. You can think of it, if you like, as turning over a new leaf.”

“I’ve already been fostered once” – Matt glanced at Gwenda, who twitched in her seat – “and it wasn’t exactly a success.”

“That’s certainly true,” the magistrate agreed. “And I’m afraid Ms Davis no longer feels able to look after you. She’s had enough.”

“Really?” Matt said scornfully.

“I did what I could!” Gwenda cried. She twisted the tissue into her eye. “You were never grateful. You were never nice. You never even tried.”

The magistrate coughed and Gwenda glanced up briefly then fell silent. “And I’m afraid your social worker, Miss Hughes, feels much the same,” she went on. “I have to tell you, Matthew, that you’ve left us with no other alternative. LEAF is your last chance to redeem yourself.”

“What is LEAF?” Matt asked. He suddenly wanted to get out of this room. He didn’t care where they sent him.

“LEAF is a fostering programme.” Jill Hughes had taken over. She was a small woman, half-hidden by the table behind which she was sitting. In fact she was the wrong size for her job. She had spent her whole life dealing with aggressive criminals, most of whom were much bigger than her. “We have a number of volunteers living in remote parts of the country-”

“There are fewer temptations in the countryside,” the magistrate cut in.

“All of them are well away from urban areas,” Jill Hughes continued. “They take on young people like yourself and offer an old-fashioned home environment. They provide food, clothes, companionship and, most important of all, discipline. The L in LEAF stands for Liberty – but it has to be earned.”

“Your new foster parent may ask you to help with light manual labour,” the magistrate said.

“You mean… I have to work?” Matt said, his voice full of contempt.

“There’s nothing wrong with that!” The magistrate bristled. “Working in the countryside is good for your health, and many children would be delighted to be out there with the animals and the crops on a farm. Nobody can force you to join the LEAF Project, Matthew. You have to volunteer. But I have to say, this is a real opportunity for you. And I’m sure you’ll find it preferable to the alternative.”

“Locked up for three years.” That was what she had said.

“How long will I have to stay there?” he asked.

“A minimum of one year. After that, we’ll reassess the situation.”

“You may like it,” Stephen Mallory said. He was trying to sound upbeat. “It’s a whole new start, Matt. A chance to make new friends.”

But Matt had his doubts. “What happens if I don’t like it?” he asked.

“We’ll be in constant touch with the foster parent,” the magistrate explained. “The parent has to make a weekly report to the police and your aunt will visit you as soon as you feel ready. There’ll be a settling-in period of three months, but after that she’ll see you every month.”

“She’ll provide an interface between the foster parent and the social services,” Jill Hughes said.

“I don’t know how I’ll afford it,” Gwenda muttered. “I mean, if there are going to be travelling expenses. And who’s going to look after Brian while I’m away? I have responsibilities, you know…”

Her voice trailed away. The room was suddenly silent, apart from the sound of the traffic and the rain hitting the windows.

“All right.” Matt shrugged. “You can send me wherever you want to. I don’t really care. Anything would be better than being with her and Brian.”

Gwenda flushed. Mallory cut in before she could speak. “We won’t abandon you, Matt,” he promised. “We’ll make sure you’re looked after.”

But the magistrate was annoyed. “You have absolutely nothing to complain about,” she snapped. She looked at Matt over the top of her glasses. “Quite frankly, you should be grateful you’re being given this opportunity. And I should warn you. If your foster parent is unhappy with your progress, if you abuse the kindness you’re being shown in any way, then you will be returned to us. And then you will find yourself in an institution. You won’t be given a second chance. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I understand.” Matt glanced at the windows. The light was almost lost behind the grey, endlessly moving curtain of water. “So when do I get to meet my foster parent?”

“Her name is Jayne Deverill,” the social worker said. “And she should be here any minute now.”

They were mending the escalators at Holborn tube station and as the woman rose up to street level, sparks from the oxy-acetylene torches flashed and flickered behind her. But Jayne Deverill didn’t notice them. She was standing completely still, clutching a leather handbag under her arm, staring at a point a few metres in front of her as if she was disgusted by her surroundings.

She fed her ticket into the barrier and watched as it sprang open. Someone knocked into her and for a second something dark flashed in her eyes. But she forced herself to keep control. She was wearing ugly, old-fashioned leather shoes and she walked awkwardly, as if, perhaps, there was something wrong with her legs.

Mrs Deverill was a small woman, at least fifty years old, with white hair, cut short. Her skin was not yet withered but it was strangely lifeless. She had hard, ice-cold eyes and cheekbones that formed two slashes across her face. It was hard to imagine her pale lips ever smiling. She was smartly dressed in a grey skirt and matching jacket with a shirt buttoned to her neck. She wore a silver necklace and, on her lapel, a silver brooch shaped like a lizard.

Her progress from Holborn station had been observed.

Mrs Deverill was unaware that she was being followed as she made her way down Kingsway, heading for the offices behind Lincoln’s Inn, but the man in the hooded anorak was never more than ten steps behind. He was twenty years old, with greasy blond hair and a thin, unhealthy-looking face. He had recognized the woman as an out-of-towner the moment he had spotted her coming through the ticket barrier. He didn’t know who she was and he didn’t care. Just two things about her had interested him: the handbag and the jewellery.

He didn’t know where she was going but hoped that she would leave the main road with its many pedestrians and occasional policemen and follow one of the quieter streets that twisted away behind. Anyway, it was worth a few minutes of his time to see. He was still with her as she paused at a corner and turned left next to a pub. He smiled. It couldn’t have worked out better. Now there were just the two of them, walking down an alleyway that cut through to the legal offices – solicitors’ firms and council buildings – which existed in their own quite separate world. He took one quick look around, checking there was nobody in sight, then dug into the pocket of the dirty anorak he was wearing. He took out a jagged knife and turned it in his hand, enjoying the sense of power that it gave him. Then he ran forward.

“You!” he shouted.

The woman stopped, her back towards him.

“Give me the bag, bitch. Now! And I want the necklace…”

There was a pause.

Jayne Deverill turned round.

Ten minutes later Jayne Deverill was sitting, a little breathless, holding a cup of tea that she had been offered. She was in the office of the Family Proceedings and Youth Court, which was where Matt was being held.

“I’m very sorry I’m late,” she was saying. She had a deep, rather throaty voice, like someone who had smoked too many cigarettes. “It’s very rude of me – and I deplore rudeness. Punctuality is the first sign of good breeding. That’s what I always say.”

“You had trouble getting here?” Mallory asked.

“The coach was late. I would have called you from the bus station but I’m afraid I don’t carry a mobile. We’re not as up to date in the Yorkshire countryside as you are down here in London. In fact, there’s no signal where I live, so a mobile telephone would be something of a waste of time.” She turned to Matt. “I’m very glad to meet you, my dear. I have, of course, heard so much about you.”

Matt looked at the woman who had volunteered to be his foster parent in the LEAF Project. He didn’t like what he saw.

Jayne Deverill could have stepped out of another century: a time when teachers were allowed to beat children and there were Bible readings before breakfast and tea. He had never met anyone more severe-looking. Jill Hughes had greeted the woman like an old friend, although it turned out that the two had never met – they had only spoken on the phone. Stephen Mallory looked more uncomfortable. He was also meeting Mrs Deverill for the first time, and although he had shaken her hand, he had lapsed into silence and seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. The magistrate was more interested in the paperwork than anything else, in a hurry to get this whole thing over with. Matt examined Mrs Deverill again. She was sipping her tea but her eyes never left him. They were devouring him.

“Do you know Yorkshire at all?” she asked.

It took a moment for Matt to realize that she was talking to him. “No,” he said. “I’ve never been there.”

“Lesser Malling is the name of the village. It’s a bit out of the way. The nearest town is Greater Malling and nobody’s heard of that either. And why should they have? There’s nothing there. We’re very down-to-earth in Yorkshire. We look after the land and the land looks after us. I’m sure you’ll find it very quiet after the city. But you’ll get used to it in time.” She glanced at the magistrate. “I can really take him with me today?”

The magistrate nodded.

Mrs Deverill smiled. “And when will you make your first visit?”

“Six weeks from now. We want to give Matthew time to settle in.”

“Well, after six weeks with me, I can assure you, you won’t recognize him.” She turned to Gwenda Davis. “You won’t need to worry about him, Ms Davis. You can telephone him any time you want and, of course, we’ll both look forward to you coming up to visit.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Gwenda was still worried. “It’s a long way, and I’m not sure my partner…” She fell silent.

“There are some final forms you have to fill in, Mrs Deverill,” the magistrate said. “But then the two of you can be on your way. Ms Davis brought in a suitcase with some of Matthew’s clothes and things.” She turned to Matt. “I expect you’d like a few minutes on your own to say goodbye to your aunt.”

“No. I’ve got nothing to say to her.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Gwenda said, and suddenly she was angry. “I was never anything to do with your family. I was never anything to do with you. I didn’t even want to take you in after what happened to your parents. But I did and you were nothing but trouble. You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself.”

“There’s no need for this,” Mallory said. “Good luck, Matt, I really hope this works out for you.” He held out a hand. Matt hesitated, then shook it. This wasn’t Mallory’s fault. That much he knew.

“Time to go!” Mrs Deverill said. “We don’t want to miss the coach!”

Matt stood up. Mallory watched him with thoughtful, anxious eyes as he left the room.

Two hours later Matt walked across Victoria coach station carrying the suitcase that Gwenda had packed for him. He looked around him at the coaches thundering in and out, the crowds of travellers and the snack and magazine stalls behind the plate-glass windows. It was an unpleasant place: cold and damp with air that smelled of diesel. He could hardly believe he was here. He was free… Finally out of police custody. No. Not free, he reminded himself. He had been handed over to this woman who called herself his foster mother.

“That’s our bus.” Mrs Deverill pointed to a coach with YORK written across the front.

Matt handed his case to a man, who stowed it in the luggage compartment, then climbed on board. They had reserved seats at the very back. Mrs Deverill allowed Matt to slide in next to the window and then sat down next to him. Soon the coach was full. At one o’clock exactly, the doors hissed shut, the engine started up and they began to move. Matt sat with his forehead pressed against the glass and he watched as they emerged from the coach station and out into the streets of Victoria. It was still raining. The raindrops chased in front of his eyes. Next to him Mrs Deverill sat with her eyes half-closed, breathing heavily.

He tried to concentrate, tried to work out what he was feeling. But then he realized: he felt nothing. He had been sucked into the system. Evaluated. Approved for the LEAF Project. And sent on his way. At least he wasn’t going back to Ipswich. That was something to be thankful for. It was the end of six years with Gwenda and Brian. Whatever lay ahead couldn’t possibly be worse.

Meanwhile, about five miles away, an alleyway in Holborn was being sealed off by two police cars and an ambulance. A dead body had been found – a young man in a hooded anorak.

The forensic team had only just arrived, but already the photographers and police scientists knew they had stumbled on to something completely bizarre. The man was well known to them. His name was Will Scott and he was a drug addict who had been involved in many muggings in central London. There was a kitchen knife clutched in his hand and it was this that had killed him. But nobody had attacked him. There were no fingerprints. No sign that anyone had come close.

The dead man’s mouth was stretched in a hideous smile and there was a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He was holding the knife very tightly. He had taken it and pushed it, inch by inch, into his own heart. It was unclear how he had done it – or why – but the forensic people had no doubt at all.

For some reason, Will Scott had killed himself.