He barely noticed me, more concerned about whatever team was screwing up on his tiny screen, than a wiry kid lurking by the crisp aisle. I could’ve walked out with the whole freezer section by this point.
My movements were precise. Haribo tucked into my waistband, Twix in the back pocket. A sausage roll wrapped in a napkin and stuffed into my sleeve. This wasn’t my first rodeo.
When I was done, I turned the corner near the till, a cocky, accomplished smile on my face. That was until I smacked straight into someone. Everything dropped. Drinks, crisps, and the countless packets of Milky Buttons Squeeks had asked for. They scattered across the grimy tiles like I was a piñata that had just been smacked open. I froze; my breath caught in my throat.
The guy I’d bumped into looked older, eighteen I would have guessed, with a battered leather jacket and a calm face that didn’t match the rest of him. He bent down, picked up a bag of cola bottles, and looked at them before turning to me.
“You dropped these?” he asked. The way his eyes flicked to my bulging pockets, the crumbs on my cuff. He knew exactly what I was doing. He lingered on my features a moment longer. I opened my mouth, my eyes widening, preparing myself to run for it, but I didn’t get the chance.
“Don’t worry,” he said, smirking at me. “I’ve got it.” And just like that, he walked to the counter, pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, and handed it to the shopkeeper, who, true to form, didn’t even look up. He just grunted something about offside and waved him off in annoyance. I stood there, staring. All the food I’d meant to steal was now paid for, just like that.
He glanced back towards me, “Feeding someone else too?”
I gave a slight nod, not trusting myself to speak. He smiled, but not the smug kind—more understanding.
“Figured,” he said, gathering the items from the counter.
I furrowed my brow at him as I took the items from his hands. I should have thanked him, but I just stayed quiet, cautiously following him to the door of the shop. He held it open, allowing me to exit first.
“Name’s Chester,” he said. “And yours is?” I looked him up and down, trying to gauge him properly before I spoke. Chester had a scruffy, lived-in look, as if he belonged to the city in the same way graffiti does, rough around the edges. My eyes drifted over him, noticing the soles of his boots peeled slightly at the toes, as if they’d walked too far and he wasn’t planning to stop anytime soon. His jeans sagged a bit, but not as if he was trying to look cool.
But it was his face that got me. A quiet stillness in his blue eyes, as if he’d been through something worse than being skint and hungry and had come out the other side… not smiling exactly but still standing.
He wasn’t big, but he had a presence about him as if he carried something invisible on his shoulders, yet still stood straight under it.
I hesitated as Squeeks rushed to my side, her eyes frantically searching the items in my hands. “I’m Screech, and this is Squeeks. My sister.”
Her face broke into a smile as she found and pulled open the bag of Milky Buttons. Chester gave her a sympathetic nod before he left. He looked back at us.
“It’s not charity. Just pay me back when you can,” he said, tucking his hands into his jacket as he set off down the street.
For fuck’s sake.
I hated knowing I was in someone’s debt. It was bad enough that I had to deal with Danny, and now this guy. I instantly regretted not bolting from the shop the moment I bumped into him. Let’s hope I don’t see him again, or I might have to pay him back with blood.
CHAPTER 3
Our house is in a fucking state. Holding on to life by the short hairs, like one stiff wind could blow it down for good. The front gates gone. Danny kicked it from its hinges in one of his drunken episodes, so now it just lies rusted in the weeds. The windows, yellowed with grime were mostly covered with sheets, permanently concealing the nightmare which we had become accustomed to.
Inside, the air’s thick. Always smelling like damp, cigarette smoke, and something sharp you can’t quite name. Old takeaway boxes are stacked like sad little towers in the kitchen. The fridge clatters, a hollow sound that echoes off empty shelves and a bottle of milk that’s two weeks gone. I should really throw that out.
Danny has the whole back room to himself; a dingy cesspool he resides in most of the time. He’s got a gun somewhere in there. Always took it out and placed it beside him like a warning if we pushed him too far, or if he just wanted to scare the shit out of us. Which seemed to be more often than not.
People come and go at all hours: shifty blokes in hoodies, cars that idled for too long in the alleyway. Everyone knows Danny runs things in this part of town, but power doesn’t mean safety.
Mum is usually out on the streets. When she is home, she’s ‘busy’ with the door locked and her music on too loud, like that can mask the sound of some fat dude meeting his happy ending.
She used to smile like she meant it, before Dad ran off, but ever since meeting Danny, she hasn't smiled like that anymore.Now, she looks through us, like we’re just shadows of her imagination.
Our room’s the smallest in the house, but it’s the only place that feels even a little bit ours. The walls used to be pink, probably from when some other kid lived here, back when the house still had a chance at being fucking normal.
Now the colour is just a sickly grey, stained in places with old water damage that resembles maps of places we’ll never go. One patch on the ceiling is shaped like a bird, Squeeks calls it her phoenix. To me, it just looks like a dried piss stain, but it makes her smile whenever she looks at it.
The window is cracked in the corner; it's damn cold when winter hits. I've stuffed it with screwed-up paper to try and stop the chill.
The curtain stays closed most of the time. Well, I say curtain, it’s not really, just a blanket we found in a skip, patterned with Care Bears that have long since faded. It lets in just enough light to see the dust floating in the mornings, dancing like it’s got nothing better to do.
I gave Squeeks the bed. It’s an old rickety frame with chipped paint and a mattress that dips in the middle, but she’s small, so I know it’s not going to collapse on her. I stuffed old clothes under the sheet to stop the springs from poking her. The pillow’s lumpy, but she hugs it like it’s filled with all the affection she hasn’t received since she was a baby. She keeps her treasures tucked under it. Acts like I don’t know what she’s got under there: a battered Barbie doll, a broken watch of Danny's that doesn’t tick, and a drawing she did of me in a superhero cape.
