He was born, christened, named. John.
Biblical, naturally. And he was a Christ-like child, they said,
No terrible twos around this house.
Mr Popular at nursery,
And with the l-a-d-i-e-s too, nudge nudge, wink wink.
He’ll break hearts one day, Mum said,
And they all cooed and clucked and thought no more about it.
He grew up, went to school,
There was some bother, a letter.
Caught fighting, it said. I never, John said.
It’s there in black and white, Mum said.
Then she sighed. Boys will be boys, eh, she said.
Nan and Grandpa tittered. Knowing looks.
And they thought no more about it.
Senior school,
More bother. Another letter.
It’s nothing, John said. Mum sighed. You give it here, young man.
Unacceptable, it said.
They’re making it up, he said. You know what girls are like.
Mum paused, thought.
Oh, let him be, he’s a kid, Dad said. Modern rubbish, this.
And they sighed and they pursed their lips and thought no more about it.
No school today,
Suspended, John said. Fighting, again.
He couldn’t look us in the eyes.
It’s only natural, Dad said, patting him on the back. Top lad.
I suppose, Mum said.
John was seventeen. He never went back.
But they sighed and they rolled their eyes and thought no more about it.
No school today,
Half term. I played my records, quietly.
John was out. No-one knew where, not now.
You’d do well to take a leaf, Mum said. Don’t you have friends?
John didn’t have friends. I knew that for certain.
They knew that too.
I grew up, sixth form –
Summoned to the office. A phone call, police, could I come home?
I’m sorry, Mum said. I’m sorry, Dad said.
They looked up to the sky, like they were praying,
And I wondered what they were asking God –
That their precious Christ-like child would come back, maybe.
But all we could do now was think.