Billy

By Noel Morrison

Eleven-year-old Billy Anderson is autistic, bound by rituals, and greatly agitated when things happen out of the ordinary. One night the power in his home suddenly fails, causing his mother, Meg, to unleash a fury of emotions and send a panicked Billy fleeing into the cold, wet darkness.

Billywho has created his own world to keep himself safeis now out of his element. Plunged into the unknown beyond his front door, his flight to escape his fears sends his parents into a panic. As he heads toward a church where he hopes to find candles, Billys mother summons the police while his father races home, only to have a traffic accident delay his arrival. Meanwhile, none of them have any idea that an unlikely hero is about to save Billy from a frightening encounter, release him from his silent prison, and send his parents on a journey of acceptance, healing, and hope.

Billy is an uplifting and emotionally moving novel about a runaway autistic boy who struggles to overcome the dangers of the night, unwittingly teaching a valuable lesson to everyone who loves him.

Noel Morrisons pen provides expression for an autistic boys thoughts and fears, and spreads understanding and glimpses of hope. Josephine Croser

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Oct 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781452531434

Noel Morrison

Noel Morrison is a teacher who earned a master’s degree in Counseling. He has a particular interest in young people who have autism spectrum disorder and the challenges they encounter. Noel is married with three children, loves animals, and lives in rural South Australia.

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Copyright © 2015 Noel Raymond Morrison.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

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www.balboapress.com.au

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3142-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3143-4 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/26/2015

Mrs. Blanche went to the whiteboard and carefully outlined a shape.

‘It’s a butterfly,’ Simon yelled.

‘Yes, but it’s not quite ready yet. It’s starting to change,’ said Mrs. Blanche. ‘When it goes through the process of change it is called metamorphosis. Isn’t that a great word to describe something as wonderful as that?’She paused for a moment and asked; ‘Do any of you have butterflies in your garden?

‘We had some in the back garden,’ said Riley ‘but Dad says that because we’re not looking after things properly they’re not going to come anymore. Is that true Mrs. Blanche? Are all of the butterflies going to die?’

‘No, Riley. I’m sure they won’t all die. They’ve survived all kinds of disasters and they’re still here, aren’t they? But it is true that some of them need our help. That’s what I’d like you all to do for your homework tonight. Do a Google search on the Internet and see if you can find five different butterfly species that live in South Australia, and one of them has to start with the letter M.’

The bell rang and the children started to pack up their books and put them in their plastic trays at the front of the room.

‘Billy, it’s time to pack up.’

She waited for him to leave the classroom and then went to her desk and turned off her computer. She knew as she did so that Billy would be carefully counting each step as he left the classroom.

*******

Billy’s mum, Meg, crossed the quadrangle and turned down the veranda that ran along the length of the grade six classroom.

‘Hello Billy. How was your day?’

Billy said nothing and continued walking.

‘We’re having your favourite for tea,’ she said as they walked to their car. ‘Take away pizza. You can choose your three slices first. Last time Dad ate too much. Do you remember?’ she asked.

Billy nodded, but was now more concerned with playing with the ball of string that he carried in his pocket. Today’s colour was orange. It was always orange on Fridays. Each day had its own colour and his favourite was orange as that meant time away from school. Time away from the noise and rush, and especially the discordant sounds of the students that rang like sirens in his ears the moment he left the car out in front of the school each morning.

He walked ahead of his mother and wondered why, when she knew that they had pizza every Friday night, she needed to remind him.

She waited for the cars to clear on the busy road and then slowly eased into the traffic.

Silently they drove the three kilometres to their house and, as she carefully passed the school children on their bikes, she saw their excitement as they headed home for the freedom of the weekend. She knew it was an excitement that Billy would never share either with her or the other students.

She turned the car into their driveway and waited for Billy to get out. He had to get out first, and re-wind the wool and put it back into his right pocket. It was a ritual that never changed, and she’d learned to allow him to take as much time as he needed to arrange his orange string into a ball that was not too tight or too loose. It had to be exactly right.

‘Billy, before you go inside there’s something I need to tell you about Ruffles. I know that when he was a kitten he bit you and you’re not that fond of him, but he’s been sick for a few weeks and he may need to go to the vet. If he goes, well …’ She stopped speaking and wondered how to go ahead without Billy flying into a rage. ‘He may not come back Billy. Do you understand what I am saying?’

Billy stood still and said nothing. She would try later, she decided. Perhaps after his bath and before he went to bed would be a better time?

She waited for him as he followed her to the front door. He went into the family room, plonked himself down on the couch, grabbed the remote from the faded green arm of the lounge chair and flicked on the television.

She went into the laundry to see how Ruffles was. He lay as if he hadn’t moved since she had left him, and with a flash of panic she thought he may have died. She bent down and finally saw the slow movements of the cat’s breathing. As she stroked his orange fur a sense of hopelessness grew inside of her. She knew that she mustn’t allow herself to become too emotional. She needed all of her strength to cope with Billy and the eventual traumatic journey to the vet.

Meg went into the family room and watched Billy who was now totally absorbed in his program. She looked at his thin, white neck and pale, blond hair that tapered to a funny, swirly point at the back of his head. If only she could hold him and convey her love through her warmth and touch, but Billy had not let her touch him since he was a toddler.

When the program ended, she collected the menu for Mario’s Pizza, even though there was no need to look at it. She and Rob had tried to get Billy to eat other take - away food but had always failed. It was easier to accept his choices than fight them. She checked the kitchen clock and decided to text Rob. She hoped that his mood had improved. She started to text when suddenly the power went off, and Billy started to scream.

******

Rebecca James left for work early on Friday morning and coaxed her aging Toyota to climb the steep, narrow road that led to the shelter. The wattles were covered in blossom, and the gum trees held droplets of recent rain that covered their aromatic leaves with watery, translucent beads.

The track led to the outer administration building, and she automatically avoided the pot hole that everyone complained about, which still remained after two years of trying to have the council fix it.

She stopped her car and as she was climbing out she saw a dog which was outside of the shelter, standing next to the wire – mesh fence. It was large and strong, with thick, taut muscles and battered, shortened ears. The wounds to its ears were old, and had healed into thickened, bloodied crusts. She watched the dog as it started to pace up and down the fence. She cautiously walked towards him and avoided making eye contact. Dominant dogs, she knew, saw this as a threat and could react aggressively.

‘Good dog. Good boy. You’ll be right now. Just come for a bit of a look, have you?’

The dog stopped and fixed her with a stare. He waved his tail slowly from side to side and then started to growl.

‘It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you. Good boy.’

She continued to walk towards the dog and the dog’s growl grew even louder. The dog drew back his lips and bared his teeth. The guard hairs stood up along the back of his neck and he lowered his head. Rebecca knew that if she went any closer he could attack. She would need to find help.

She went back to her car and waited for the staff to arrive. She hoped that if she gave him enough space he might stay and not leave. She estimated the dog’s weight and quickly calculated the approximate dosage she would need to sedate him. She knew she needed to be careful. Finally she heard the engine noise of the receptionist’s car as it drove up the hill.

The dog stopped and looked at the car. It crouched down, flattened its ears and waited.

‘It’s huge,’ said the receptionist nervously as she cautiously wound down the window of her tiny car. ‘Is it as dangerous as I think it might be?’

‘We’ll need to be very careful. He’s a Mastiff cross breed of some sort, probably crossed with a pit bull. The sooner he’s sedated the better.’

‘I’m glad that I’m not in charge of the shelter Rebecca,’ said the receptionist nervously. Can you believe that I was going to be a vet like you once but I decided that it was too much responsibility.’

Without waiting for an answer she quickly opened the door to the shelter and Rebecca went into the treatment room and unlocked the white cabinet that contained the drugs. She tore the plastic wrapper from the syringe and drew up the liquid.

‘Judy, we need to be very careful here. Can you watch him?’

‘Rebecca, I’m sorry I can’t. He looks savage and I don’t trust him.’

She looked up as they heard the sound of the volunteers’ van arrive.

‘There’s a dog walking along the fence line,’ Rebecca said as the volunteers climbed out of the car. ‘He’s at the side near the front entrance. I’ll need you just in case anything goes wrong. Once I’ve sedated him that should be that.’

The dog didn’t move as she walked towards him. She lifted the gun, and as she did so he rushed at her with his teeth bared. She fired the dart. It missed. She fumbled with the gun and forced herself to be steady, took aim and fired. This time the dart landed in his flank, but he continued to growl and lurched towards her. Rebecca ran to the car and quickly shut the door. The dog’s front paws scrabbled at the window. It refused to succumb to the drug and remained on his feet, trembling with the effort to stay upright.

At last he fell to the ground. She waited for a few moments, and then cautiously approached him. She saw the scars on the