Big and Clever Read Free

backwards and forwards in the air.
    My stomach flips over. ASBO Boy’s on our side. I’m shocked, but I’m slightly chuffed too. It’s like the feeling you get when a big dog runs up to you and licks your hand instead of chewing your arm off. I laugh and nudge Raks.
    â€œHe agrees with you,” I say, jerking my thumb in the direction of Ryan Dawkins.
    By the time we look back across though, he’s stopped the hand gestures and he’s reading his magazine again.

two
    Dad’s had a rough night again by the looks of it. It’s only five past seven in the morning and he’s up and dressed, which isn’t usually the case. Thing is, he’s in the same clothes he was wearing yesterday, food stains, creases and all. Added to that, the coffee table in the living room is covered with empty beer cans and a half-full bottle of Costcutter’s own brand vodka. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that he passed out on the sofa last night and never made it to bed. It wouldn’t be the first time.
    â€œMorning Tom,” he says, coming into the kitchen, trying to sound bright and cheerful. His chin is covered in stubble and his eyes are pink. “Can I get you anything?”
    I take a bite of my toast and shake my head.
    â€œNo, it’s alright Dad.” I point towards his mug. White and blue with a union jack on one side and I LOVE GREAT YARMOUTH on the other. Me and my mum bought it for him one summer holiday. “I’ve made you a coffee. Do you want some toast?”
    Dad runs his hands through his hair. He’s forty-three next year and he’s going grey fast. Forty-three going on sixty-three. In the past, people have said I look like him. I hope that’s not what I’ve got in front of me.
    â€œWould you mind?” he says. “I’ve got a bit of tidying up to do.”
    Dad takes his coffee and goes back into the living room and I stick a slice of bread in the toaster. I flick the radio on. Letchford Sound. Letchford’s Best Mix of Music and More . That’s what it says on the bumper stickers. I’ve never really been too sure what there’s More of. Phone-ins probably. People moaning about binge drinking, dogshit and the lack of disabled parking spaces round the precinct. It’s The Toby Collins Breakfast Bonanza . The Tobemeister, he calls himself. I saw him once, doing a roadshow in the Ainsdale Centre in Letchford. He’s about fifty.
    The toast pops up. I butter it, spread on some honey and take it through to Dad. His tidying hasn’t got started yet. The TV’s on and he’s slumped into the sofa.
    â€œOh, thanks Tom,” he says. “Have you got time to sit down for a bit? Keep me company?” He’s smiling at me hopefully.
    The clock on the mantelpiece says it’s ten past seven. I should be making a start on getting ready, but a couple of minutes won’t do me any harm.
    I sit in an armchair. GMTV is on. It’s a report on celebrity cosmetic surgery gone wrong. The report ends and it’s on to an ad break. Two different products to end the misery of constipation, amazing new pictures of Jordan in Heat , and a CD of Power Ballads.
    Dad’s gazing intently at the screen, but he’s not really taking anything in. He’s wrecked. I look at him and shake my head. It’s hard to believe he was quite a handsome bloke a few years back. Mum said he looked like Jeff Bridges. Same dark blond hair, same jawline, same mouth. Apparently, his mates at work used to call him Hollywood Tony . Film-star looks, they reckoned. I don’t think there’s much chance of that nickname seeing any use in the near future. The bone structure is still there, but you just don’t notice it any more. The skin hanging off it is grey and lifeless. All the spark has gone.
    I stare at the mess on the coffee table. The blue material of the sofa is covered in toast crumbs. I’m getting