A small broken object

I would like to tell you a true story. A story that is very special to me.

About sixteen years ago, I happened to have written a small piece on what it was like to report abuse to the police. A young boy, aged around 15, started to ask me questions about it.

There was something about him, something in the way he talked that told me something wasn’t right. It felt like the right thing to do was to be an adult in his life, someone he could talk to.

I knew his name, his age, and the city where he lived. Nothing else. He didn’t want to use video or audio, just typing on a chat app, so we did that. Over time, I learnt little bits about his life. Let’s just say that bad men were doing bad things to this young man and had been from a young age. 

It has taken me some time to learn everything about this story. Building trust with damaged boys takes time. I was a man he didn’t know, talking to him online. I might not be who I said I was, I might be a bad person. 

Over time, we grew to trust each other, and I suggested we meet up. Somewhere public like a café, where he lived, so it felt safe and just for the purpose of being friends. 

So I travelled to his city and went to a café he had selected and sat and waited. I drank coffee and wrote a little and wondered if he would turn up.

He didn’t. I texted him, and he said he couldn’t do it. I told him I understood and it was okay. I said I had a small present for him, and if we could arrange it, then I would really like to get it to him. 

Maybe I could post it through a door or leave it with someone who could be trusted to get it to him. Eventually, he came up with a plan that if I didn’t mind, I could go to an address of his friend’s aunt’s house, who was out at work, and pop it through the letterbox. His friend had a key, and they could go and get it once I left. 

So that is what happened, then I went back and got on a train and went home. He sent me a picture of the present unwrapped. He loved the present, it was an iPod shuffle, one of those you could clip to yourself. The iconic white headphones, the ultimate cool item of the month and something I figured he would like as he loved music and I was guessing not something he could easily afford at his age. 

If nothing else, it had got safely into his hands and it would now make him happy wherever he went. Later in the week, he told me he had 11 songs on it. Really? A whole 11?! You know it can hold a lot more than that, right? But you like those 11 … of course you do. 

I don’t think it was really mentioned again other than me checking every now and then that it still worked and he was still using it. After a while, I just assumed it had been replaced with an iPhone.

We have been in touch on and off for sixteen years. Sometimes there are gaps and other times we talk every day. This year there has been a lot of talking because we both needed each other. 

We have still never met, I have never spoken to him in an actual conversation, I do have a picture of him, I think it’s him, yeah, it is.

Those sixteen years have not been wasted, we have got to know each other, we trust each other, we know each other’s story, we tell each other truth and hurts and things that scare us. We have what they call a friendship. A good, long-lasting friendship.

The other day he sent me a picture. The picture on this page. A small object. A battered, no longer working iPod shuffle. A faded Apple logo and the scratches of a lot of use. It stopped working years ago, but he carries it in his wallet. So it is with him, always. 

We talked about that day we tried to meet. The day I gave him the iPod. He explained that he had come to the café but couldn’t quite be brave enough to come in but he saw me there. 

His friend said I was another one of those men giving him gifts, and I might be bad. He never accepted another thing from me: no money, no practical help, no presents of any kind. 

He always said he wanted to know we were only ever friends and that I could never utter the words ‘I gave you all these things, and you owe me’.

When we talked about it recently, he told me how much it meant to him, how he treasured it and used it for years and kept it long after it had broken.

And then this picture  … all that love in one small broken object.