The Lost Boy - Chapter 1 - part three - Buckets and Fuckits

So, I’d returned home. I mentioned in the last part that I felt like I was part of my family again — and that was big, because for so long I’d felt disconnected. Like I didn’t belong. A lot of that was tied to how my dad left and the guilt I carried, believing it was my fault. That feeling never fully left me. But I was back.

And then came the transition to secondary school.

I remember my transition day. Not clearly, but enough to picture it — sitting in the hall, the teachers addressing us all. I spotted someone I knew from the village, a close friend growing up. Not someone from my past in care — someone from where I lived, back with my family.

I don’t remember the emotions around it, really. It’s all a bit of a blur. Just flashes. Not even, more like a still image in my mind with a bit of sound. Knowing what I was like I can imagine I felt overwhelmed, a bit lost, maybe even scared — I was never great in new social situations, and secondary school was a whole new world!

But I went into that school determined. Determined to behave. To do well. I wanted to carry through the progress I’d made at the last school — the one where I felt seen, where I’d finally found a bit of steadiness. I wanted to keep that version of me going. The one who wasn’t a problem. The one who could do better.

But it didn’t work out like that.

As much as I tried to keep my head down and fade into the shadows, I ended up drawing attention. Not the kind I wanted. I was targeted — mainly by one boy. He’d pass me in the corridor and always have something to say. A jab about my weight. A name. A shove. Nothing full-on physical at first, but constant. Poking at me like he could sense I was trying to disappear.

And one day, I snapped.

I don’t remember what led up to it. Just that we were in the playground, and suddenly we were fighting. Circling each other, throwing punches, the kind of scuffle that draws a crowd fast. I remember all the kids gathering around, shouting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” — calling more people over.

Then I was being dragged inside by a male teacher — can’t remember who. Just remember the grip on the back of my blazer, being marched into school. That’s where that memory ends.

But I know what came next. My first suspension.

And from that moment, things started to unravel. I didn’t spiral straight away — but the thread was pulled. Slowly, my attitude shifted. I stopped caring. I lost interest. You might still get a decent lesson out of me if I found it fun, but mostly? I was done.

I’m not sure how long I was at that school — maybe halfway into Year Eight, maybe not even that far. But eventually, it was more conflict, more fighting, more bad behaviour. Disrespecting teachers, disrupting classes — the list just kept growing.

At the same time, things at home were messy. This whole stretch of life is hazy in my memory. Bits are vivid, but most of it feels like I’m seeing it through fog. But I know the next school I ended up at… that was another one. Another reset.

I don’t remember starting there. No memory of the first day or walking through the gates — but I do remember being there. I remember smoking. I was always with the smoking kids, usually hanging around with the older ones as well as my own age group. Ive just realised I must’ve been back in care again. The memory comes back through the habit — not the timeline.

I was staying with the same foster family I mentioned earlier — the ones who had adult children that no longer lived at home. They had a property in France, and whenever they travelled back and forth, they’d bring back loads of tobacco because it was cheaper over there. I never went to France with them, but I saw the tobacco. Samson — that was the brand. And I helped myself to it. Not out of rebellion, really. More out of instinct. I was trying to belong. Trying to be part of something. Free roll up handouts helped that for sure!

And thinking about that now, another memory surfaces — one from even earlier. I must’ve been so young. End of term at my first primary school. I remember sneaking back after everyone had gone, leaving the windows open on purpose. I had this plan in my head — this idea to break in. I remember crawling through the secretary’s office, going straight to her drawer. I knew there were pound coins in there. I wasn’t stealing for fun. I was a child, acting like someone three times my age. I just needed something, and no one was giving it. So I took it.

That memory didn’t stand on its own. It was part of a pattern — one that repeated itself more times than I can count. I didn’t just steal once, or twice, or even three times. It happened again and again, in different places, different ways.

And I’m not here to sugarcoat it. I knew it was wrong. I knew it at the time. And still, I did it. I wasn’t given much growing up, that’s true — but that alone doesn’t give someone the right to take. It’s not that simple. I think, deep down, there was something else behind it. A thrill, maybe. A sense of control. Maybe even excitement. As wrong as it was, there was power in it — even if only for a moment. And for a kid like me, power was rare.

That thread — that behaviour — it ran through more of my story than I’d like to admit. And I’ll come back to it later. But for now, I want to stay with where I was, and what was happening with school — because that part of the road was about to take another sharp turn.

So yeah — back to smoking. That school… smoking and drugs were part of it. Not just around me, but part of me by then. It wasn’t just something I did — it was part of how I moved through the day.

My behaviour there was still an issue, though maybe not as wild as it had been at the last school. To be fair, the staff at this one were softer, more calm in their approach. They tried to understand, to listen. But truthfully? I think I was beyond being listened to at that point. I didn’t really let anyone in. I was polite when I needed to be, but inside… I didn’t care. The fuck it was still there.

I probably played them a bit, to be honest. I knew how to say the right thing. How to act like I was trying. But I wasn’t.

I’d turn up to lessons stoned — if I went at all. Most days started with me in the corner of a field, smoking bongs or buckets with a friend. That was our routine. That was school.

Buckets and fuckits.

That was the rhythm I lived by at that point.

I didn’t exactly leave that school. I was permanently excluded — for attempting to supply illegal substances.

It wasn’t some grand operation. I wasn’t trying to become a dealer. I just wanted enough to keep myself going. I figured if I sold a bit, I wouldn’t have to pay for my own. And someone — I still don’t know who — told a teacher. That was that. Another door shut behind me.

That wasn’t the last school I’d go to — but it was the last one in England.

Looking back, it wasn’t just school that was slipping away — it was something deeper. Something in me was getting quieter, more hidden. I was starting to let go of the idea that anything could really change.

This part of the journey ends with another school gate closing behind me. But what was happening at home was shifting too — not a return to old behaviours, but the evolution of them. The things I was doing, the choices I was making… they were getting riskier. More serious. More criminal.

And that’s where we’ll go next if you’ll follow….

Part Four: Buckets and Fuckits

Coming soon — a deeper look into how drugs entered my world… and where they took me.