minutes she would get Steve laughing and chatting shyly.
âI keep telling Nick he should get a decent office job like yours, Steve,â she said, smiling brightly.
âOh, I think he enjoys what he does, Mrs Aten.â
âJudy.â
âSorry ⦠Judy. He couldnât stand being tied to a desk.â
âI hope the police never look in the back of that truck he drives.
There are enough rumours about Mr Karowski to sink a battleship.â
Upstairs my dad had begun his DIY. Thump. Thump. Thump. It sounded like he was tapping nails into solid brick.
My mother chatted happily over the thumping, handing out more cake to Steve who could never bring himself to say no.
âFound it,â I said as pink lasers cut slices out of the TV screen.
âOh, Iâll leave you to it. Anyway, Iâve got a boatload of ironing to do. If you want anything Iâll be in the kitchen.â
She left, singing lightly to herself.
As I stood up I noticed my dadâs empty can. Lucky she hadnât seen that otherwise dad would have been in for an ear-bruising. Crushing the can, I dropped it into the bin.
Upstairs the hammering stopped.
Suddenly something struck me as strange. Never, ever, in my seventeen years on this planet had I seen dad drink beer of an afternoon.
âLooks as if itâs going to be a good concert, Nick.â
It was. I sat down to watch it and forgot the beer can completely.
Chapter Four
Life Is a Bastard
Steve kicked us out early.
Well, you have to agree, 8.30 is excruciatingly early for a Sunday morning. His dad was due home by mid-day so he needed to restore the house so it didnât look like a truckful of drunks had crashed through the front door. Which was more or less what had happened.
The girls we hoped would show, didnât. We ended up getting drunker while playfully shoving one another over the furniture.
The three of us hopped over Steveâs back garden wall to cut across the fields, leaving Steve to do what he could with the house while repeating for the thirteenth time that morning:
âMy dadâs going to kill me when he gets home.â
With the morning sun already hot on our necks, we plodded across empty meadows. My mouth tasted as if a toad had died of the blister in there, then been buried beneath my tongue.
The others went their separate ways as we reached the edge of town, leaving me to plough the last mile through the long grass alone. What thoughts I could keep together mainly centred on how I could do the most damage to Tug Slatter.
I saw no one. I heard nothing. It was only a Sunday morning in Spring with nine-tenths of the population enjoying a lie-in.
I climbed the fence into our back garden, scaring the birds up intoa blurry cloud. Then, cutting down the passageway into the front garden, I checked my pick-up. Still clean. Slatter hadnât chosen to do an encore just yet.
I noticed my dadâs car was missing from the drive. Nothing unusual about that. Some Sundays heâd drive into town to pick up the newspapers. My mother would probably still be in bed. My brother certainly would. Saturday nights heâd watch old horror films in his bedroom into the early hours â then sleep until lunchtime.
âHI HONIES, IâM HOME!â It was my customary greeting in a voice guaranteed to sandpaper anyoneâs nerves.
The usual âShut up! Iâm trying to sleep!â never came. They were sleeping with the lid on that morning. I headed for the kitchen.
âPigs!â
I shouted it again as I pushed a pile of hacked bread to one side of the table and clicked the top back on the butter tub.
If that was my dad whoâd left the mess he was playing a dangerous game. Mum would go berserk. Not that heâd normally do something like this.
Come to think of it, heâd NEVER do anything like this. After eating his cornflakes heâd wash his dish then stick it back in the cupboard. The only other
âI keep telling Nick he should get a decent office job like yours, Steve,â she said, smiling brightly.
âOh, I think he enjoys what he does, Mrs Aten.â
âJudy.â
âSorry ⦠Judy. He couldnât stand being tied to a desk.â
âI hope the police never look in the back of that truck he drives.
There are enough rumours about Mr Karowski to sink a battleship.â
Upstairs my dad had begun his DIY. Thump. Thump. Thump. It sounded like he was tapping nails into solid brick.
My mother chatted happily over the thumping, handing out more cake to Steve who could never bring himself to say no.
âFound it,â I said as pink lasers cut slices out of the TV screen.
âOh, Iâll leave you to it. Anyway, Iâve got a boatload of ironing to do. If you want anything Iâll be in the kitchen.â
She left, singing lightly to herself.
As I stood up I noticed my dadâs empty can. Lucky she hadnât seen that otherwise dad would have been in for an ear-bruising. Crushing the can, I dropped it into the bin.
Upstairs the hammering stopped.
Suddenly something struck me as strange. Never, ever, in my seventeen years on this planet had I seen dad drink beer of an afternoon.
âLooks as if itâs going to be a good concert, Nick.â
It was. I sat down to watch it and forgot the beer can completely.
Chapter Four
Life Is a Bastard
Steve kicked us out early.
Well, you have to agree, 8.30 is excruciatingly early for a Sunday morning. His dad was due home by mid-day so he needed to restore the house so it didnât look like a truckful of drunks had crashed through the front door. Which was more or less what had happened.
The girls we hoped would show, didnât. We ended up getting drunker while playfully shoving one another over the furniture.
The three of us hopped over Steveâs back garden wall to cut across the fields, leaving Steve to do what he could with the house while repeating for the thirteenth time that morning:
âMy dadâs going to kill me when he gets home.â
With the morning sun already hot on our necks, we plodded across empty meadows. My mouth tasted as if a toad had died of the blister in there, then been buried beneath my tongue.
The others went their separate ways as we reached the edge of town, leaving me to plough the last mile through the long grass alone. What thoughts I could keep together mainly centred on how I could do the most damage to Tug Slatter.
I saw no one. I heard nothing. It was only a Sunday morning in Spring with nine-tenths of the population enjoying a lie-in.
I climbed the fence into our back garden, scaring the birds up intoa blurry cloud. Then, cutting down the passageway into the front garden, I checked my pick-up. Still clean. Slatter hadnât chosen to do an encore just yet.
I noticed my dadâs car was missing from the drive. Nothing unusual about that. Some Sundays heâd drive into town to pick up the newspapers. My mother would probably still be in bed. My brother certainly would. Saturday nights heâd watch old horror films in his bedroom into the early hours â then sleep until lunchtime.
âHI HONIES, IâM HOME!â It was my customary greeting in a voice guaranteed to sandpaper anyoneâs nerves.
The usual âShut up! Iâm trying to sleep!â never came. They were sleeping with the lid on that morning. I headed for the kitchen.
âPigs!â
I shouted it again as I pushed a pile of hacked bread to one side of the table and clicked the top back on the butter tub.
If that was my dad whoâd left the mess he was playing a dangerous game. Mum would go berserk. Not that heâd normally do something like this.
Come to think of it, heâd NEVER do anything like this. After eating his cornflakes heâd wash his dish then stick it back in the cupboard. The only other
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