‘Okay, twenty-five?’ Beebee hissed after him.
He came back into the light. ‘I came out here to be nice. To give you guys the choice for the easy way out… but you two bitches are too dumb to see where this is heading so… peace out. I’m off to bed.’
They shot each other a confused look. ‘Look, can we have the joints or not?’
He pretended to think for a moment. ‘It just went up to two joints for forty quid. Take it or leave it.’
‘That’s ridiculous, no way!’ said Ceecee.
‘Nighty-night then.’ Callum began to pull his headphones back up.
‘Wait!’ Said Beebee. ‘Two for forty, then. And you’d better make them big ones.’
Callum snorted like he was about to make a seedy joke but then thought better of it. He held out his hand waiting for the money, watching Ceecee as she served him her best resting bitch face. She took out her phone and asked for his email address as she tapped her screen viciously. Callum’s phone pinged and he checked to see that the transaction had gone through. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and, retrieving a packet of Rizlas from his pocket, began filling the paper.
Great. My son was dealing drugs to his cousins in his grandmother’s house and they weren’t even going to take the damn videos down. Brilliant job, Cal.
‘So, I hear Martha’s a rug-muncher, then?’ Ceecee asked scornfully.
Callum didn’t speak, but I saw him pause for a long moment. He ignored them and the rustling of the paper between his fingers resumed. He licked the edge of the paper and twisted it deftly at the end. He held it out towards Ceecee between his fingers. She reached for it but he snatched it back at the last minute.
‘Actually, I’ve just decided you get one joint.’
‘What?’ Beebee spat. ‘We paid for two!’
‘Yeah, well, then you decided to call my sister a rug-muncher, so I decided to deduct it. Got anything else you’d like to say?’
Their faces were filled with spite.
‘You little chav! Give us our money back!’ Ceecee launched herself towards him, but he stood quickly and towered menacingly over her.
‘I don’t like the way you look at me and my family,’ he said in an icy tone that made my skin prickle. ‘You think you’re so much better than us… but you’re just pampered leeches whose mum and dad despise each other. And I’m pretty sure that when they look at you, all they see is a reflection of themselves. That’s why they hate you, too. Or should I use the past tense, now that one of them is dead? I can’t be sure, on account of being a dumb chav.’ He flicked the joint over the banister.
Callum walked off into the darkness leaving Beebee and Ceecee cursing and scrambling around. I quickly headed back to my room, my blood rushing at witnessing a side of my son I’d never seen before. As satisfying as it was seeing him stick up for himself and our family, I wasn’t entirely sure I was keen to see that side of Callum again anytime soon.
10
FROM TIKTOK TO TRAUMA
The whole family convened for another round of fresh hell as the fireplace roared, the candles flickered and the Christmas lights twinkled, bringing a warm, comforting glow to an atmosphere that was anything but. After a day of the family avoiding each other, Jeannie had insisted we play a game of charades in the sitting room to ‘stretch the limbs of the mind’, whatever that meant. Either she was now fully enrolled in the batshit insane club, or the stone-cold psychopath society. My bet was she was president of both.
I clutched my glass of steaming mulled cider, dutifully prepared by Mrs Harlow, who, after a day of funeral arrangements and filling out paperwork, had excused herself and gone to bed early. I needed to get me a Mrs Harlow.
I breathed in the aroma of spiced apple, cinnamon and orange, hoping it would calm the tension knotting tighter and tighter in my stomach. I hadn’t heard a whisper from my editor, not a dickie bird… Which wasn’t particularly unusual, but at a time like this felt agonisingly ominous. I had written a measly 632 words today. Unsurprisingly, the steamy scenes weren’t writing themselves when all I could think about was Tristan chopped up like Wagyu, or George half dangling like a discarded piñata. It felt like my veins were filled with rocket fuel; either I was going to take off to the moon at any moment or explode on launch. I could just tell my editor what had happened, but it sounded so unbelievable I’d be better off going with ‘Gloria ate my homework’.
‘Your turn, Olivia!’ Jeannie’s voice cut through my racing thoughts.
Leaning over to the coffee table, I put down my cup and picked up a folded piece of paper.
Scrawled in spidery blue ink it read, ‘The Mousetrapby Agatha Christie’.
I stood, brushing down my skirt, willing my mind to focus on the task at hand rather than the looming deadline.
Uncle Fergus and Aunt Clem were on my team, the two players that no one else ever wanted to be paired with, Jeannie had definitely done it on purpose.
‘Time starts, now!’ trilled Jeannie, looking at her wristwatch.
I moved my hands up and down to signal a rope and held up two fingers.
