Then she smiles and pulls away, all innocence laced with triumph.
‘Maybe there’s hope for you yet,’ she murmurs, her hand soft on my chest before she turns to rejoin the others.
I watch her go, every step a slow twist of the knife she doesn’t even know she’s holding.
As for hope…
Hope’s for fools and that ain’t me.
2
AXEL – ‘THE CRIMINAL’
Christmas Past, Thirty-Three Years Ago…
I wake up to Mum’s favourite Christmas song playing on the radio. The one about snow falling and children playing… only no one’s playing here. Dad’s shouting. Mum’s crying.
It’s been worse since we moved here. Mum said it’d be better – more space, my own room – but it ain’t.
It’s too damp, too cold, too smelly.
And everything makes Dad mad.
Sometimes, it’s the dog next door.
Sometimes, it’s the music from downstairs.
Sometimes, it’s the cooker or the telly that won’t turn on.
And sometimes, it’s me.
Mostly, it’s me.
I roll over, squeezing the pillow around my ears, but I still hear him.
‘Where the fuck is the money I put in the tin?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mum says, crying harder.
Money: that’s another troublemaker.
I wish it was Monday. Monday’s school. Hot lunch. Miss Anders. No shouting. No tummy growling. I don’t care if no one wants to sit next to me. I wouldn’t want to either. I smell like home. Look like home. Stinky, they say.
But it’s Saturday. Two more sleeps away. And soon, it’ll be the holidays. So many days at home…
I close my eyes and hum the new song Miss Anders taught us:Si-ilent ni-ight, Ho-oly ni-ight…
I hum louder with Dad’s noise.
A-all is calm. A-all is bright…
I press the pillow tighter, knowing the crashing’s gonna get worse before it gets better. The money ain’t here. Mum gave it to a kid who knocked yesterday. Maybe she forgot. Maybe I should tell her?—
My door bangs open.
‘Oi, get up!’
The blanket’s ripped away before I can move. My pillow next. Then Dad’s in my face?—
