The Boy With No Bottom

Same drudgery, different day. I’m out on delivery, the world reduced to envelopes, front doors, and the slow erosion of my will to live. The postie bag hangs at my side like dead weight — not just heavy, but faintly accusatory, as if it knows I chose this route and has never quite forgiven me. “Nearly done,” I mutter, purely for morale — mine, not the bag’s. The next address isn’t familiar. That’s never a good sign. I glance at the parcels — foreign names. Long ones. Complicated. The kind that feel like they should come with a pronunciation guide and a warning label. Potentially Russian… but equally French. Or just aggressively European. Either way, not local. The lane narrows as I approach, cobbled and crooked, like I’ve stepped backwards in time — and not into a charming postcard. The other version. Poor hygiene. Questionable morals. A general lack of shame. Dog mess litters the path in unapologetic blobs. “Charming,” I mutter, stepping like I’m navigating landmines. There’s junk everywhere. Rusted bikes. Broken furniture. A chair that looks like it’s seen things it refuses to talk about. No pride. No care. Just… existence. Then — barking. Loud. Sudden. Unmistakable. “Oh brilliant,” I sigh. “Exactly what every postie dreams of. A light mauling before tea.” I approach the back door. It’s slightly open. Of course it is. “Hello?” I call, hovering on the threshold of a situation I want no part in. Nothing. I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing my trusty red card — my official ‘I tried, you weren't in, fuck you’ pass. Then — voices. Raised. Sharp. Oh good. They’re home. Even better. Two dogs come hurtling out first — long, lean, fast. Greyhounds. All muscle and momentum. They skid towards me, then stop — tails wagging. Friendly. Suspiciously so. “Oh. You’re not killers,” I say, cautiously relieved. “That’s… refreshing.” Then the men appear. Two of them — and instantly, the temperature drops. They look wrong in that unsettling, instinct-shredding way where leaving feels like the only sane option. If eyes could kill, I’d already be a neatly arranged pile of organs on the cobbles. “I have a parcel for you,” I say, because apparently I default to professionalism in the face of potential death. They speak to each other — not English, not even close. Fast. Low. Sharp. Clueless British bitch, I imagine. One of them snatches the parcel from my hand, turning it over with visible confusion. “Not yours?” I offer, trying to keep things light. Casual. Alive. A beat. Then: “Oh… mine.” Flat. Final. Right then. “Actually… you’ve got to sign for those.” I pass over the PDA. He scribbles something that could legally qualify as a signature… or a threat. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not once. And all I can think is — leave. Immediately. Preferably before this turns nto something I’ll have to explain. They take the parcels. I take several careful steps backwards. And then I turn. Towards the gate. Freedom. But as I pass the side of the house — I see him. The door there is ajar too — apparently hinges don’t exist in this part of the world — and sitting on the step is a little boy. Still. Small. Too quiet. “Hello,” I say, softer now. His eyes flick up to meet mine. There’s something there — a flicker of… something human. Then it’s gone. He’s dressed in rags. Proper, worn, tired fabric that’s given up trying. Red rings circle his eyes, like he hasn’t slept for weeks. His hair hangs long, nearly swallowing his face whole. He looks… forgotten. I hesitate. Then I turn away. Because this isn’t my business. This isn’t my job. I deliver parcels, not miracles. But something grips me — not by the arm, not by the feet, but somewhere deeper. A quiet, persistent pull behind the ribs. A voice that whispers: Don’t leave him. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. I stop. Close my eyes briefly. “Oh, for God’s sake…” I turn back. “Wanna get out of here?” He looks at me. Then nods. Just like that. No questions. No fear. No hesitation. And suddenly — I have acquired a child. He follows me without a word, communicating in nods, small gestures, watchful glances. He helps me deliver letters like he’s been training for this moment his whole life. The older residents adore him. “Oh, look at him!” one woman beams, ruffling his hair with soft reverence. “Such a sweet boy.” He smiles — a real one this time — and it lands somewhere deep in my chest, quiet but undeniable. “You’ve been a great helper,” I tell him warmly. He has absolutely no idea what I’ve said, but he smiles anyway. And somehow… that feels enough. After work, I take him to the pier — because at this point, I’ve practically adopted the boy. Just… unofficially. The penny slots flash and clang — a sensory overload of noise and light. He freezes, overwhelmed, like he’s never seen anything like it. Then — clatter. Coins spill out of a machine. He nearly jumps out of his own skin. I laugh. “It’s just winning,” I say. “Mildly addictive disappointment, dressed as joy.” Slowly, he leans in. Tries again. Then again. And suddenly — he’s hooked. Bucket thrust into my chest. Eyes wide. Demanding. More. Now. A family walks past. They look at him. Then at me. Ah. That look. I know it. Judgment. Sharp. Silent. Certain. “Right,” I say quickly. “Let’s… relocate before I get reported.” On the way, I notice his limp. “What’s wrong?” He points. His shoes. Jelly sandals. Bright red. Far too small. His toes are practically making a break for freedom. “Oh… mate.” I crouch down. “Let’s get you some new ones.” He smiles — soft, cautious, like hope is something he doesn’t trust quite yet. Inside the shop, the atmosphere shifts. People notice. They always do. Parents subtly guide their children away. The smell doesn’t help. Nor does the constant scratching. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. An assistant approaches, already offended by our presence. He looks down and gasps. “Those shoes…” he says, horrified. “Honestly… fashion crime of the century.” I nod. “Agreed. We’re pressing charges.” The shoes come off reluctantly, carefully — like they might be contagious. And I feel it again. That creeping, familiar weight. Judgment. I’ve worn it before. When Phoebe got hold of a bottle of Calpol and necked it like it was a recreational beverage. When I rushed her to A&E, convinced I’d accidentally poisoned my own child. A spoonful of charcoal and all was well — but I’ve never looked at Calpol the same since. When Maxi disappeared on Lyme Regis beach and I spent what felt like hours dissolving into panic — only to find him at the lifeguard station, sobbing, wearing a hat with dangling corks, like he’d just returned from the outback. When I forgot which day World Book Day was and sent him in dressed like a plague-era peasant. Other children snickered. “It’s next Friday,” the teacher scorned. Every word a firm slap. When Alex cracked his head open on an IKEA chair and had his head stitched back together. A small bald patch still catches the light like a spotlight on my failures. Parenthood isn’t soft. It’s relentless. A constant negotiation between love and guilt. And the guilt? Oh, it lingers. It always lingers. We buy the trainers. Expensive, but worth it. When he takes my hand, it catches me off guard. I can’t remember the last time one of my boys did that without being wrestled, bribed or emotionally blackmailed. At the beach, I gesture. “Off you go.” He doesn’t move. “Play,” I say, demonstrating — digging into the sand like a woman unhinged. “See? We dig to Australia.” He watches. Then drops to his knees beside me. And we dig. And dig. And dig. Laughing. Proper, unfiltered joy — the kind that sneaks up on you and settles somewhere warm before you can question it. Then — he stops. “What’s wrong?” He looks into the hole and frowns. “No bottom,” he says. I blink. “You’ve had a voice this entire time?” He grins. “Yeah.” Pause. “I speak English.” Another pause. “Fluently.” I stare at him. “You little liar.” He shrugs. “So… where’s that ice cream you promised?” I laugh at the sheer cheek of it. “Come on then.” At the ice cream van, something shifts. A quiet sadness settles over him. Subtle, but there. “Are you okay?” I ask gently. “Yeah…” A pause. “Can you take me home after this?” Home. The word hits differently now. Of course he has one. Of course he has a mum. And me? I’ve just… taken him. Not rescued. Not helped. Taken. Kidnapped, if we’re being brutally honest. “Yeah,” I say softly. “We’d better get you back.” He nods, ice cream dripping down his chin. “Messy,” I smile. He laughs. We walk back hand in hand, and I feel it creeping in — the reflection. That uncomfortable truth. Parenting isn’t just about raising your own children. It’s about carrying the weight of all the ones you can’t save. About seeing need… and not being able to unsee it. Because sometimes, stepping in feels right. And sometimes — it simply isn’t yours to do. We reach the house. He lets go of my hand and walks towards the gate, shoulders hunched, head hung low. “Fabian!” a voice calls out. Relief floods the air. For a second — I feel it too. Then — “Where the fuck have you been? I’m going to beat three rounds of shit out of you. Get inside.” The words slice clean through everything. And my heart — Drops. Past the sand. Past the sea. Past Australia. And keeps going. I stand there. Still. Because now I know. And I can’t unknow it. And here’s the thing no one prepares you for — Sometimes you don’t fail by walking away. Sometimes you fail… by bringing them back.