Prologue
Cumbernauld, Scotland
Forty Years Earlier
“I’d avoidhome today if I were you.”
Nicola’s voice startled Kit from where he’d been focused on his bowl of limp cafeteria chips and unfinished maths homework. He raised his eyes to meet his twin’s intent gaze from across the table. “What happened this time?” he asked, shoving a lukewarm chip into his mouth and grimacing at the mushy texture.
“Dad got let go. Again.”
“Ah. Don’t tell me—he turned up drunk to the site?”
She shook her head. Her blonde hair—crunchy-looking from the excessive amount of hairspray she used—barely budged even from the vigorous movement. “Called Jim an ugly bastard. To his face.”
Kit frowned. “How did you find out so fast?”
“Jim told his wife, who told Becca’s mum, who told Becca, who told me.”
“Are you going to stay with her, then?” he asked. Becca was Nicola’s current best friend, one of a never-ending cycle of girls in their year who occupied the position on any given week.
“Yeah. Until Monday, if she doesn’t get sick of me sooner.” She smiled sadly. They both knew it was advisable to avoid their own house when their dad was on the warpath. “I did ask if you could stay too, but she said her dad wouldn’t have any of it.”
Kit waved her off with a chip, the end breaking off and flying somewhere onto the floor. “Oops,” he said, searching for it before giving Nicola his attention once more when it became clear the chip was lost forever. “No bother. I’ll see if I can crash at someone’s.”
She gave him a disbelieving look. “Whose?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Kit bluffed. They both knew Kit didn’t have many options, but he didn’t want his twin to worry.
After the final bell of the day rang, he hung around in the school library until it closed. When he finally left school, Kit had reluctantly resolved to risk going home, mainly because his stomach was protesting his lack of food. Lunch hadn’t been enough for him—no good vegetarian option other than the chips—so he’d have to try scrounging up a cheese and pickle sandwich from the fridge.
When he entered the kitchen to find his mum sitting at the table with a bag of frozen peas pressed to her face, his stomach turned with more than hunger pangs. A bottle of cheap white wine sat open and half-drunk. In a rare show of solidarity, she gestured to it, offering a glass. He accepted, though only after taking the peas away and giving her a bag of corn wrapped in a dish towel instead. She didn’t need to get frost burn on top of the shiner.
He sat at the table, finger tracing the rim of his glass. “Why don’t you leave him?” It wasn’t the first time he’d asked thequestion. Sometimes, it felt like it was all he ever said to his mum.
She ignored him, tipping the rest of the wine into her mouth.
“He’s a bastard,” Kit said, not giving up. “Why do you stick around for him to treat you like this?” His growing anger had his voice rising to a crescendo. If their mum left, then so could he and Nicola. Nicola never got it as bad as he did, which he was glad of, but she’d never leave without their mum.
Instead of ignoring him again, his mum looked at him like she always did: scathingly. “Don’t speak about your dad that way,” she spat.
Kit downed his drink—it tasted like vinegar and regret—and left the house in a rage.
He regretted storming out all of five minutes later when he realised he hadn’t eaten. One glass of wine did not a dinner make, but he had no money and no desire to risk going home to steal some pennies from his mum’s purse. So, needing a distraction, Kit went and sat on the grassy slope beside the football pitch, watching the other boys kick a ball around on the red ash. The wine made his head woozy, but it passed as a couple of hours went by.
He pulled at his school tie, loosening it. He’d take it off completely, but he’d lost one a couple of years back, and the tongue-lashing he’d endured from his parents for having to purchase a replacement wasn’t worth the risk.
Kit despised the maroon tie and the rest of his school uniform. The black trousers pooled at his ankles—his mum never remembered to buy a size down for his short legs—and the white shirt was stuffy and scratchy. At least the blazer fit. He kept it pristine, which wasn’t always the easiest in his house, but he needed to takesomepride in his appearance. Between the blazer and his blond curly hair, he supposed he might look a little foppish. Rather that than unkempt, however. The rest ofthe boys didn’t seem to care about such trivial things as they made reckless tackles that ripped their trousers and left them with bleeding knees.
As evening turned to night, most of the others left to go to their respective homes, leaving only the sorts of guys that Kit wouldn’t want to be caught out with after dark. Trying to stay out of sight, he scurried along to one of his other usual haunts.
Children rarely used the tiny play park, so Kit got the prime position of the sole working swing. The spring day had been mild, but Kit shivered as the chill of evening set in, pulling his blazer tighter around him. He pulled out the tattered copy ofTwelfth Nighthe’d been reading for English and swung back and forth as he struggled through the incomprehensible text. The sky darkened, and his eyes strained to see the words.
He checked his trusty Casio watch. Ten. His dad might have passed out from the booze by now.
Kit meandered under the orange glow of the streetlights, letting his feet carry him forward without conscious thought. A few cars drove by here and there, so Kit didn’t notice at first when one slowed down alongside him. He assumed the driver was waiting for a turnoff, but it pulled into the curb instead of continuing to head around the next corner, cutting Kit off.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He stopped in his tracks as the driver leaned over towards the passenger window and rolled it down.
