Page 36 of Open Water

Yeah, the sun that is called Matteo is out again. Smiling all adorably under his wet fringe that has now fallen back over his face.

“Then what is the problem?”

“Where do you live, Matteo?” He tries to sound kind. Supportive. Because he knows this stuff.

“I have been in foster care since I was thirteen. I currently live at a halfway house for kids who are too old to be placed. I’ll be eighteen in four months and then I get kicked out.” Matteo takes another bite of the sandwich. Licking his finger to remove a stray blob of butter.

And Tom feels like a complete knob.

“Which one?” he whispers.

“Brantbacka,” Matteo replies, almost like he feels relieved.

“Fuck,” Tom blurts out.

“Yeah.” Matteo sighs.

Tom knows it well, one of the council-run places where ex-cons are mixed up with streetwise kids and mental health issues are conveniently ignored until the kids turn eighteen and are shoved off with a piece of paper in their hand to go live their lives.

“I’ve run some of the clinics there,” Tom says quietly. “I know the place well. I volunteer for a group of medics who do street clinics and self-care workshops.”

Matteo just chews. Fiddles with the crust on the plate.

“Did anything happen today?” Tom asks quietly. He’s dealt with the aftermath of some serious altercations between the kids in those halfway homes. If it was up to him at least half of those places would be shut down. Whilst others are run well and seem to change people’s lives. If it had been up to Tom, kids like Matteo would never be placed anywhere near the Brantbacka home. Fucking scary shithole.

“Some dude broke into my locker again. I mean, I only keep clothes and my chargers in there, and now I am a hoodie short and have no leads for my laptop.” Matteo chews furiously. “I’m not trying to get sympathy or nothing, but I have to carry around anything that is valuable otherwise it just goes missing. Not that I blame those guys, because I’m lucky in many ways, because some of the people there, have nothing. I just hate staying there. It’s never quiet and there are people being noisy all night long. I sometimes go and stay with my friend Tilda, but she needs to study, and her parents are going mental at me always being there.”

He takes a deep breath, not looking up. Like he has said too much and now regrets even opening his mouth.

“Where are you going when you turn eighteen?” Tom asks quietly.

“No idea. I will get a grant for rent, but I won’t be able to afford something on my own. I have been looking through ads for flat shares, but haven’t found anything yet. I have a job a few afternoons per week, but it’s all cash-in-hand. I have nothing to prove an income, and references from Social Services aren’t exactly attractive when you are trying to get into a decent place.”

“You are the same age as Max then?” Tom tries. Digging carefully.

“Yeah, I’m a year behind. But my grades are decent. I’m not a total fuck-up.”

“You sound pretty awesome to me. Not a fuck-up.”

“Thanks,” Matteo replies and drains his cup. “Do you think I could go see Max for a while?”

The kid looks drained. Exhausted. In need of a hug.

“Go.” Tom waves his hand. “And kiddo?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll leave a load of bedding by Max’s door. Stay. The sofa is pretty comfy, or Max has one of those oversized bean bags in his room that makes a decent bed. Don’t go back out in this weather. I’m sure Max won’t mind having you here. And we do waffles on a Sunday morning for breakfast. It’s tradition. They’re wholemeal but still really tasty.”

Shut your mouth Tom, he thinks to himself, because the kid now looks pained. Like he needs to go hide in a corner and escape from the embarrassing Dad talk.

“Max’s room is the one off the living room to the left,” Tom says and nods towards the hallway.

“Thanks.”

That’s all he says before disappearing down the hallway, leaving Tom standing in the kitchen feeling nothing but alone, despite the sad chant of message notifications lighting up the phone on the table.

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