Generation F by Winston Smith

Author:Winston Smith [Smith, Winston]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Monday Books
Published: 2011-04-19T23:00:00+00:00

I went in to Liam’s room and attempted to wake him. He pretended to be deaf and ignored my requests to get up.

An hour after entering this in the log, I’m called in to the office by the manager.

‘What you’ve written here might be viewed as judgmental by social services,’ says the very woman who has just been slapped, sworn at and almost brained with a flying plate by this youth. ‘And it’s very harsh language. You’re making a presumption as to Liam’s reasoning, and jumping to conclusions without being sure about the facts.’

I don’t bother arguing the toss with her. I know by now that you can’t expect simply to record your experiences in a working day in these journals of deceit. Social services object to anything that even hints at criticism of the young people in our charge, and frontline staff are expected to write up daily reports about the events in their respective care homes as if they inhabit some kind of morally neutral universe, where no judgments or standards exist. I was there, and I saw what I saw, but that counts for nothing. The log will be rewritten – as will a remark by another keyworker that one of the other residents was ‘sulking’ (‘oppressive language’). This whole sector is infected with an institutional and ideological form of insanity.

Liam eventually rises at around 11am – he won’t be doing school today – and shortly afterwards another worker called Dean and I catch him trying to climb out on to the roof through a Velux window. It’s a three-storey house, so although we generally indulge these kids in every way possible this is judged a step too far, even for us. We shout for help, and three of us spend quite some time wrestling with Liam to keep him off the roof, grappling with his flailing legs and dodging flying fists and feet. Eventually, Dean manages to lock the window, and we release the teenager.

He stands glowering at us, and singles me out.

‘I know which fucking room you sleep in, Winston,’ he says, breathing hard. ‘Tonight, when you’re in there asleep, I’m going to kick the fucking door in and mash you up, and there won’t be anything you can do about it.’

‘Whatever, Liam,’ I say, wondering whether I could unlock the window later, and spread goose fat all over the roof tiles. I also think about wedging a chair under the handle of the bedroom. I’m not physically scared of Liam as long as I can see him coming, but I don’t fancy the idea of being attacked in my sleep.

We go our separate ways, and I don’t see him again until the early evening, and Liam is tired of playing his Xbox in the lounge. I’m not surprised: the roof escapade apart, he’s spent the whole bloody day on the thing.

He walks over to me. I’m on my guard, though I try not to show it.

‘Hey Winston,’ he says. ‘Play us a game of tennis in the garden will you?’

Maybe he’s forgiven me for earlier.

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