Funny how your perception can change with circumstance. Alex got social workers and that group homes did not actually suck big time. Oh they sucked, but he had lived through worse. What really sucked was physiotherapy, whose practitioners were sadists only full of encouragement and wide honest smiles. When your world is reduced to tutors, bed and medical personnel for a year all other worries go out of the window. Going to the Group Home was merely him keeping to his room, eating at required meals and doing his allotted chores in a house filled with strangers. In the end he had only had to endure high school for nine months, where he merely ticking boxes as functioning and coping. Yeah, High School counsellors were easy to fool. He had been a Ward of the State of California, until he got the necessary grade points to graduate, no prom, no attendance at graduation and he had point blank refused to go in the yearbook. He had talked to no one voluntarily, made no friends and had only actually spoken when asked a direct question, answering with one word responses where ever possible. Any intrusive question were met with 'talk to my social worker' or 'the last guy that tried that died'.

The good thing about being an at risk teenager in the system meant no one had direct contact with Alex anymore. He had no wish to talk to anyone, not Sabina nor Tom, definitely not any spooks. Everything went through his Social Worker, the entire Department of Children's Services or the family court. His uncle's chosen guardians were ruled to be unfit, which had been the best day of Alex's short and unhappy life. Home had initially been a rehab facility in Fresno and then a group home in Bakersfield. He had saved his allowance and odd job money earned over that time to scrape together the airfare back to London. Waiting there was Ian's house, which he planned to sell and then he could possibly to go to university. To study something bland and boring, maybe geography, history or classics. For a life as a teacher, museum curator or librarian, so nothing exciting ever happened again. Alex Rider knew that plans, hopes and dreams were for fools. Better to go survivalist, get a place with good lines of site, a bunker and enough land for subsistence living, to avoid contact with anyone ever again.

It was mid summer in London, he had rented a room in a shared flat. His space had the luxury of a sink, where he got his drinking water, did his washing, ablutions and had no need to visit the shared facilities. Like he had been shown in Brecon, he pooed into nappy bags and disposed of them like any other dog walker. He ate food cold from tins, packs of sandwiches or salad on the remaindered pile in the supermarket. By the third week, Trisha the law student had had enough of the potential psycho killer in their midst and stormed into the room to see it was light, clean and aired. The bed covered in clothes and the fact the tenant was sleeping in a sleeping bag squashed between the bed and the desk.

Alex looked sheepish that she had discovered his freaky control issues. "I don't like wardrobes or beds. Bad experience with my last foster parents. I did not last long with them. Group home was better. Eleven placements in eighteen months… not good. I was a shit but the bastards meant to be caring for me were worse. I don't do communal anything after being in care. Calling it care is a complete fallacy, neglect and derision more like, mixed in with brutality and sexual abuse. People treat dogs better in my opinion. You're here to ask me to move out. Its OK, one weeks notice is all I need. End of July I'll be out of your place and you'll never see or hear from me again. You got a nice place. You need to do better background checks next time. The cash I gave you was not stolen. I earned every penny and not by sucking cock. No one touches me, not any more. So, conversation over. Nice knowing you. Please get out of my room. I promise it will be spotless when I leave. By the way I fixed the broken tile on your roof so the damp patch in the corner should clear up before your next tenants arrive."

Alex looked at his stuff and started packing. He had seen a nice place in Bermondsey. Not touched in years, absentee landlord. He did not need electricity. It had an open fire so he would be warm. Place was filled with rubbish, which he would clear out into a skip over a weekend. He sat on the bed and rubbed is aching left leg. The constant reminder of San Francisco. He was momentarily back in that basement, but he opened his eyes to nice, normal Clapham. He pulled out the booklet on universities and knew in his heart of hearts he wasn't going. He might even be undisturbed for years living in south-east London. He then stopped thinking of anything and meditated on his breathing. Don't make plans, don't hope and dream. Live for the moment, fuck everyone else. If he crossed paths with some megalomaniac now, he let them destroy the world. Better off dead, cause living sure as hell sucked.

The tall, leggy blond student returned from her run the next morning to see the door of the spare room wide open. It was beautifully clean inside, cleaner than it had been when rented out in June. No lodger, Al Brown had moved out.

….

Greg Morgan had lived in 12 Grange Park Road for four years. The house next door had been boarded up all that time. Such a waste, this area was lovely, with its 19th century terrace of two up two downs, a row that had survived the Blitz. Today he had come home from work and there was a half filled skip in his usual parking spot. The boards had been removed from the windows and doors. A young man in his late teens was washing the windows.

"Sorry about the skip. It'll probably take about another three to clear out the junk and rubbish. My names Alex…. I just inherited this place. I… I never knew anything about my family. My mum died when I was six weeks old and I've been in the system like forever. So, my great uncle died like fifteen years ago and he left me this place, which is cool. Better than the bedsit I was in. This is a freaking palace!" Alex had found the deeds on his first night there, last week. A modest fee at the Land Registry and this place was legally his. Rider luck had struck again. He had a job part time at a local cafe, enough to pay for food, utilities and his taxes. He could rent out the spare room next month once it was decorated and a shower was fitted. The cooker and fridge had been the first in the skip, he'd bought second hand replacements all ready. Some hipster in Canning Town had paid over a grand for the genuine fifties kitchen cabinets, site unseen. Alex had kitchen units, worktop and sink arriving from a bankruptcy sale on Thursday, for half that amount.

Tonight he was hand delivering Mrs. Jones' boss at Albert Embankment with instructions to gift Ian's money to Help for Heroes. He had carefully worded the three page letter for maximum psychological impact. No more puppeteers in his life, fuck Ian, fuck Alan Blunt, John Crawley and Tulip Jones. He had read the Diary of one elderly, isolated, lonely survivor of a work camp in Germany. Alex had decided that he could start anew. Work his way back towards being a member of society. He needed help, but he was not the spy, just an abused kid who survived the system. Solomon Schelling had shown him the error of trying to be alone, licking his wounds in private. Start down that path and in fifty years he would be an old man with no friends, no family and would die alone, unloved, Alex mourned a man he had never met. Poor Solly, there was a man who had needed saving. Alex new their were no saviours, you only saved yourself.

That was not the only contact with the past, he made. Emails long postponed were written.

Congresswoman Maria Bellwood read the email and called in her good friend and campaign manager. "Luisa, Alexander Rider has emailed. Read, he's back living in London."

"Oh how sweet, he hopes Danny is coping better than he has been and apologises for not being in contact sooner but he was overwhelmed by what happened and that sticking his head in the sand was not the best approach to coping and healing. I think its positive overall." The emails detailed that he'd been to a local rape counsellor and was getting to grips with his sexuality. No boyfriends yet, though. The woman looked pensive "I spoke to his social worker regularly, she said he was silent, closed off and unemotional. Thank God, he's finally breaking out of his self imposed stasis. Do you want to reply or shall I?" She was going to show this to her now twelve year old son, as he had never thanked his rescuer face to face.

Edward Pleasure was no longer a journalist, but now taught journalism at Brunel and on weekend courses. Liz had retrained and was now a nurse waking shifts in A&E have decided to do something not so frivilous. Losing Alex had been hard on all of then, especially the knowledge he wanted nothing to do with them.

"Dear (Foster) Mum, Dad and big sister. I know its been over three years since we last conversed. Put it down to a major sulk on my part, only the truth is I was too busy being completely psycho. You weren't singled out. I did not speak to anyone. My shrinks got me talking about tea, the weather, how boring life was at the clinic or how fucking awful the rehab was. I'm walking fine now. We have matching limps, Ed. I'm back living in London, Bermondsey. Nice squat. Got a job and finally talking about my three days in hell. Have group twice a week and see a therapist on Saturday mornings. I decided against going to college right away. I want to get my head straight and start dating. Sabina was right to question my sexuality when I turned her down. I fancy blokes. You haven't written a book about it all, want to talk? Email me and we can meet. I only pick up my messages every two to three days as I use the free internet at the library. Yes, funds are limited but Tulip Jones can go fuck herself and keep Ian's money. I went to collect my inheritance and those bastards bailed on doing the decent thing and honouring Ian's will over the technicality of me refusing therapy. I've been nuts since the incident with the Portuguese Man of War in Cornwall. Ask Sabina, I told her about Herod Sayle. I promise I'll be in touch. Caio Alex."

Ealing Hospital was busy on this Thursday night. There was a full waiting room when Edward went to reception. "Is Liz Pleasure on break soon? I'm her husband. A family well, its not an emergency, but she needs to know, OK? Its important." He only socialised with Liz's new friends. Sabina thought her mother's change in career was weird. Their daughter was living in Oxford and barely came home.

"OK, Mister. What's up? Sabina better not be pregnant!"

"No, but we may have to visit her, soon, like tomorrow, but we could FaceTime her now." The fifty year old grey haired man thrust his iPhone at his wife. "Read the open email. I know you know my password."

"Oh my God… O jesus, he called me mum!" The woman speed read the email and then reread it as the tears started to flow. Her voice broke with pent up worry, hurt and deep guilt. "He's been silent for three years! That bitch at Children's Services said we'd done enough damage. He was hurt and alone. A frightened child. Hurt upon hurt, he coped the only way he could by shutting down. Now reduced to living in a squat and short of funds. Have you emailed him back?"

"Yes, I suggested we meet for lunch at Alfonzo's on the Old Kent Road on Tuesday. He says he's working so who knows if its a good time. I will meet him then try and persuade him to come to Sunday lunch as family." Edward wanted to play this reunion low-key. Ease Alex back into their family. First they had to sound out Sabina's reaction.