Work Text:
1980
It was just a quick run to the theater, to purchase tickets for a movie to see next week. They liked to keep on top of things like that. They were only supposed to be gone for half an hour. Mum kissed his hair goodbye, and he pushed her away, grinning.
“I’m too old for tha'!” he protested, a combination of age and accent slurring his words.
“Poppycock,” she replied, grabbing him and peppering kisses all over his cheeks. “Yeh nevah too old for a mother’s love.”
“We’ll be back in a few minutes, Perry,” Dad said as he put on his favorite fedora and coat. “I trust yeh to be good while we’re gone.” Perry nodded solemnly from where he sat on the couch. He was a good kid, a little boisterous, a little chatty, but he could handle himself for half an hour, even at just five years old.
They both blew him kisses as they left, and he pretended to be annoyed. Then he returned to watching TV, singing along with the intro to a favorite cartoon and yelling in excitement during the action scenes.
He didn’t even realize they were late getting back, at first. But when one episode turned into three, and then five, he realized that they’d been gone for far, far longer than they’d promised.
He waited by the front door, TV still running in the living room. The clock on the wall in the kitchen seemed unnaturally loud, and he tapped his feet against the wall in time to the ticking of the hands. A few hours passed, and hunger gnawed at his belly. He pouted, banging his heels harder against the baseboard until it hurt too much to continue. Slouching all the way down to the floor, he laid there and waited. And waited.
And waited.
They did not come back, and he fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning, a hard knot in his stomach killing any hunger he felt from his missed dinner.
The next day he continued to sit by the door, but now he cried. Loud, wailing sobs of fear and anger as he wondered where in the world his parents had gone and why they would ever just leave him behind like this? They’d promised to come back. They always came back. They’d never left him alone for this long before, except for when he went to Uncle Lawrence’s house, or when he stayed with Grandma. And never by himself. He’d never been by himself for so long.
By late afternoon he was hungry enough to leave the door. He dropped milk all over the counter and floor trying to make cereal, and didn’t bother trying to mop it up. He ate the cereal dry, his fingers getting sticky and his thirst rocketing up from the dryness. He drank water from the sink, glad he hadn’t taken his water cup from it’s place by his bed to be washed yet. He kicked a football inside the house for a few minutes, testing a theory. Mum always showed up when he did that, angry and ready to tear him a new one.
She didn’t show up this time, and he threw the ball against the wall hard enough to knock down a few hanging pictures. The glass broke, and he avoided that area so he wouldn’t cut himself on it.
When night fell, he got his blanket from his bed and slept by the door again, crying as loudly as he could, so that when they came up to the door they would hear how miserable they had made him and be sorry for everything.
And yet still they did not come home. His crying dwindled until he could do nothing but sit and stare, an occasional tear trickling down his cheek. His throat closed up, and he felt like he was choking on his own fear. Minutes turned into hours. The TV continued to drone in the living room, he was too afraid to turn it off. What if the silence drove him mad? The milk in the kitchen began to congeal and stink, and he didn’t even care. He walked through it in his socks and tracked it all over the house. Mum would be livid. But Mum didn’t show up.
He ate cold leftovers from last week, and didn’t brush his teeth or comb his hair. He didn’t change his clothes or wash his hands after he ate or used the loo. He picked at the paint on the baseboard and left all the lights on day and night.
Two days turned into three. And then four.
He sobbed hopelessly at night, terrified that he was now doomed to be alone forever in this house, that they would never come back, that no one would ever come for him at all.
On the fifth day, he finally abandoned the door. He retreated instead to their bedroom, crawling beneath the covers and weeping silently until he fell asleep again. The pillows smelled like Mum’s hair and the blanket smelled like cologne. He wrapped himself up in both, and resolved not to move. His stomach cramped, and his body ached, but still he did not move.
He slept for a long time. He wasn’t sure if it was now the sixth day or the seventh. He knew he had missed several days of school. He laid beneath the covers in the darkness, and wondered if there would ever be anything to break the silence beyond the never-ending chatter of the TV from the living room, distant and indistinct.
And then there was a loud knock at the front door.
For a moment, Perry couldn’t believe it.
And then the knock came again.
Scrambling free of the bed, he rushed for the front door, but in his haste and relief, he couldn’t get the door to just open.
A third set of knocks, sharp and hard, and an unfamiliar voice shouted through the door, “Police! Is anybody in there?” Panic seized him and he pounded on the door with his fists, desperate for them to hear him. What if they left him?
I’m here, I’m here! Help me! he cried silently, hitting the wood hard enough for the bones in his hands to ache.
“Stand back!” the strange voice ordered, and he obediently retreated from the door, hiding behind the sliding door that lead into the kitchen. Dried and curdled milk stuck to his dirty sock, but he didn’t care because someone, or several someones, was breaking down the front door. The lock gave after a few mighty blows, the door crashing inwards. The silence afterwards was almost deafening.
“Hello?” the strange voice called again. “Where are you?”
Peeking out around the corner, he saw several men standing in the entry, all dressed in police garb. The one in front spotted him first and knelt down, holding out a hand.
“Are you Perrin Fletcher?” he asked, voice gentler now that he wasn’t on the other side of a locked door. Perry nodded, eyes wide and fingers gripping the edge of the door so hard his knuckles were turning white. The police officer beckoned him closer, and he shook his head hard, still not making a sound.
“Alright, alright,” he said. “Perrin, my name is Jim. I’m with the NSY. We’re here to help you.” Still Perry didn’t move, and the man sighed. “You’re probably wondering where your parents are.” He nodded, and Jim sighed again, tight and slow. “How many days have you been here by yourself, Perrin?” He held up six fingers around the edge of the door, and Jim the policeman ran a hand down his face.
“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this,” Jim said gently, “but unfortunately your parents have passed away. They were...involved in an accident, at the theater. Do you understand?”
Perry did understand. He was very smart for his age, he’d already skipped a grade in school. He knew what passed away meant. His parents didn’t believe in molly coddling a child about death or how babies were made. When he was old enough to ask, he was old enough to know.
His parents were dead.
Slowly, Perry slid to the ground, his trousers getting stained by the foul milk, tears leaking from his eyes and sobs wracking his body. He cried hard and long there on the kitchen floor, and Jim the Policeman came close and patted him on the shoulder. Perrin wept bitterly, but not a single sound ever passed his lips.
The men took him to NSY, where he sat in a sparsely furnished room for several hours. They brought him a change of clothes from his house, and a pair of shoes. The shoes were old, and pinched his feet, so he stayed in his socks. They left him a coloring book and some crayons, but he didn’t touch them, instead choosing to sit in a corner and stare at the door until it opened. An officer brought him some food around five o’clock, and another tried to ask him some questions when they came to take the untouched tray away.
“How are you feeling, Perrin?” she asked, and he just stared at her. He didn’t like to be called Perrin. He was only called Perrin on the first day of school, and when Mum was very mad at him.
“Would you like something to eat? I’m sure you’re hungry,” she tried again, offering him a triangle piece of sandwich with the crusts cut off. He didn’t take it, just shrugging his shoulders and turning away. She persisted for a little while longer before giving up and going away.
Perry cried some more, head buried in his arms and still silent. He wasn’t sure why no noise came from his sore throat anymore, but he felt almost as if any sound that passed his lips might break something very delicate, and send everything held in balance crashing down around him. He didn’t know why he felt like that. Everything had already fallen down around his ears. Mum and Dad were dead, and he was alone. He wondered where he would go now. An orphanage, like in the movies? Maybe to Grandma and Grandpa Fletcher. They were always happy to have him.
They were always happy to send him home with Mum, too, though. He was hard on Grandma, too much energy for her old bones, as she liked to say.
He was just starting to wonder what sort of kids he’d have to bunk with in the orphanage when the door opened up again, and Jim the Policeman stepped through it.
Uncle Lawrence was with him.
Perry was so relieved to see someone he knew, someone he trusted and that his parents trusted, too, that he got right up and ran over to his uncle to throw his arms around Lawrence’s waist. Lawrence was Dad’s younger brother by several years, and had only turned 18 a few months ago.
“Ah, hello there, Perry,” Lawrence said in his usual gentle tone. His face was pale and drawn, with dark bags under his eyes. Nevertheless, he managed a small smile for his nephew. “And how are we today, little chap? I hear you haven’t eat anything. Peanut butter here not to you liking?” Perry just shook his head and buried his head in Lawrence’s hip, clinging tightly as he patted at his terribly unkempt hair.
“Well, that’s terribly unusual,” Lawrence remarked.
“What do you mean?” Jim asked, leaning against the table that held the untouched coloring book.
“He’s not said a word, he’s usually such a chatterbox,” Lawrence remarked, prying Perry’s arms free of his trousers so he could kneel down and hug him properly. “Feeling shy in front of mister police officer, are we?”
“He hasn’t spoken since we collected him from the house,” Jim said softly, tapping his fingers against the surface of the table. “Wouldn’t have even known he was inside if he hadn’t started banging on the door.” Lawrence frowned deeply, the expression wrong to Perry, who’d hardly ever seen his Uncle without a smile on his lips.
“That’s odd,” Lawrence said, almost under his breath. He rubbed Perry’s back as the child clung to his neck, sniffling a little bit as Lawrence realized he was crying. It was almost surreal; Perry had always been the loudest crier he’d ever encountered. “Perry?” Lawrence gently pushed the child away until he could look him in the face. Perry’s face was screwed up and tears were freely flowing now, his shoulders starting to shake as he sobbed in earnest. And yet not a single hiccup of noise passed his open lips.
“It may be a side effect of the trauma,” Jim said awkwardly. “His parents just gone all of a sudden, and then he was left on his own for a little while.”
“How long is a little while?” Lawrence demanded, his voice steelier than Perry had ever heard it as he pulled him back into a comforting embrace.
“Six days,” Jim admitted.
“Six days!” Lawrence cried, his grip on Perry growing almost painfully tight. “Why was he left for so long?”
“Well, the….incident resulted in numerous casualties, as you know. It took us a while to sort through everything. And then we had to have them identified, and the paperwork, and then going through their belongings to return to next of kin, we realized that Mr. Fletcher had a picture of a kid in his wallet. We didn’t know they had a kid home alone. He should have at least been with a sitter. He’s a bloody five year old.”
“He’s an incredible five year old,” Lawrence snapped, and Perry was so surprised by the act of aggression his sobs paused for a minute. “He’s been left alone for short times with never a problem. How were they to know what would happen? That they wouldn’t be able to return to him?”
“Look, I know this is hard-,” Jim began, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.
“It’s beyond hard!” Lawrence shouted. “My brother and his wife are dead and their child was left alone in a house for almost a week because no one thought to ask me or our parents if there was anything else we should be telling the police beyond, oh, yeah, that’s Thomas there on the bloody slab and Mary with him!” Perry hiccuped, a high squeak of air that startled Lawrence out of his sudden anger. Silence reigned in the room for a few minutes as he rocked Perry slowly, burying his face in the boy’s teal colored hair.
“I’m sorry,” Lawrence finally sighed, glancing over at where Jim was still leaning on the table. “I would like to take Perry home with me, now. I’m the closest family member that can possibly take him.” Jim nodded and left, returning a few minutes later with a large stack of paperwork and a woman that Perry didn’t recognize. He slipped in and out of awareness as the three adults (or just barely adults, in Lawrence’s case) talked over his head about legal guardianship and financial stability and lots of other big words that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to the small boy. It was nearly ten o’clock by the time Lawrence hefted Perry up against his hip and carried him out of the police station.
They took the tube to Lawrence’s flat, and Perry was very tired, so Lawrence tucked the boy into his own bed to sleep before sitting down in his chair in the front room. Lawrence wondered how his life had suddenly gone from just barely being a high school graduate to being the legal guardian of a five year old boy.
You heard about things like mass shootings happening in places like America, or where there were full-on wars taking place. But not here, in the middle of London. It’d rocked the whole city when the gunman had opened fire into a theater lobby full of people, mowing down twenty and killing fourteen, Thomas and Mary Fletcher among them.
Lawrence put his head in his hands and wondered how he was supposed to raise a child that he suddenly didn’t even know anymore. Perry had always been so vibrant, it’d been his favorite part about the boy. He’d loved to talk, on and on about what he’d seen on the telly, or about something at school. Nothing was insignificant to Perry, everything held wonder and promise. The child sleeping in the bedroom had none of that. He was small and quiet and just so...broken. Not a word from him since they’d found him in the house. Perry had even talked in his sleep, it was almost inconceivable that he’d just suddenly gone mute. If Lawrence hadn’t seen it for himself…. Slowly, the young man pulled himself together and started trying to come up with a new five-year-plan. He’d intended to go to school for music, but that was off the table, at least for now. His current job at a little antique shop down the road would have to do. The owner had even been offering a promotion and a raise if he stayed instead of taking off for school. He’d have to take her up on that, now, with a child to start caring for. He’d have to fiddle with his schedule, too, so he could drop off and pick up Perry from school during the week, and either work out how to have him at the shop on weekends and evenings when he worked or start budgeting for a sitter or daycare.
Muttering to himself, he started drawing up a list of things he’d need for Perry until the boy’s things were released from police custody to Thomas and Mary’s next of kin (Perry, and thus Lawrence). It took hours to get everything scratched out on paper and organized, and he ended up falling asleep in the chair, snoring loudly, with a pencil tucked behind one ear.
It took a few weeks to fall into a rhythm. Perry ended up waiting in the rain for an hour one day for Lawrence to get off work, and Lawrence ended up getting chewed out by his boss for letting Perry play with antique figurines in the shop. Perry fell behind on his homework. Lawrence fought to keep the bills paid with the hours he pulled.. Perry was scheduled to start meeting with a therapist, whom he ignored in favor of sulking on the couch when forced to attend sessions. He still didn’t speak, or make any noise at all, really. It baffled and concerned Lawrence, and didn’t really bother Perry, even though the child himself was unsure as to why the silence filled him up from top to bottom.
The therapist said it was trauma, and that he should keep coming back until he started talking again. Lawrence couldn’t afford it, and Perry hated the therapist, so he stopped going.
When paper and pen became irritating and inconvenient to continue using as a means of communication, Lawrence managed to get them into some late night, half-off sign language classes. Perry took to it like a duck to water, expressing just as much with his hands as he ever had with words. Lawrence picked it up as fast as he could, determined to keep up with the child that now looked to him as a parental figure.
They fell into step with each other in life, and most of the time it was okay.
Some days were harder than others. Some days Perry would do nothing but silently sob in bed and refuse to get up or eat or go to school. Lawrence let him have his grief. The week after the funeral was the worst, and he had to physically force Perry to eat and bathe. Lawrence cried more in the first few months with Perry than he had since he was a baby himself. But they made it through. Perry’s birthday came and went and though Perry signed happily about his birthday cake and presents, Lawrence knew him well enough to see the pain of his parent’s absence still gripping him.
Lawrence’s social life dwindled down to practically nothing, unable to hit pubs with friends or date any nice girls (or boys, he’d never been too picky about that sort of thing) without either dragging an unwilling Perry along (which instantly scared off any potential significant others) or struggling to find a sitter that could handle him.
Perry had few friends as well, all his classmates finding him very strange indeed. The boy whose parents had been murdered. The boy who didn’t talk anymore, and not just because he wasn’t able. It didn’t help that he was younger than everyone in his grade from skipping ahead before his parents had died. Perry found school suffocating and depressing, barely scraping by enough to pass his classes.
Weeks turned to months. Months became a year. They moved into a bigger flat, and Perry started martial arts classes to work out a growing aggression problem due to teasing at school. Lawrence kindled a passionate love for antiques, and soon they’d both almost forgotten what it'd been like when Perry had seemed to be made of nothing but words.