Hostage Read Free

place to catch up with other middle-aged people for Christmas champagne breakfast. Bamps was trying to get the lights to work on the thing he called a Christmas tree. It was pathetic, really: a silver stick with a few random silver branches that might have once looked half-decent. He’d stuck it in a plastic bucket because the stand had broken. A half-crushed box of decorations that looked like it belonged in a museum was on the floor.
    ‘You’ll kill yourself, Dad,’ said Laney as she thumped up and down the hallway getting ready. ‘Forget about the bloody lights.’
    ‘Not a Christmas tree without lights, Miss,’ said Bamps.
    I was reading an old cookbook I’d found shoved up the back of a kitchen drawer. Bamps’s drawers were filled with lots of rubbish but he won’t let me or Laney clear them out. He even has a printed sheet that explains how to build a bomb shelter, but I’m not sure what war that was from.
    Anyway, I was trying to work out how long it was going to take to cook the turkey the next day. I’d helped Mum make turkey stuffing before but I’d never bothered to watch how long she cooked it. Laney just wanted to make do with a chook from Safeway. She wasn’t into eating much, but Mum and I always had turkey. Christmas was the only time of year she ever bothered with cooking. It was like, if I cooked a turkey she would kind of be there. Anyway, it was hard understanding the cookbook because the directions had pounds and something called oz. There were notes in the margin in scrawly handwriting—I guess they were Nan’s—but I couldn’t make out what they said. I thought about checking the internet for a recipe, but that would mean sucking up to Laney so I could use her laptop and I just didn’t feel like it. Not even for a Christmas turkey.
    Laney was making so much noise in the bathroom I could hear it over the music she had blaring. I went to see what the problem was and found her dabbing at her face with a wad of tissues. My new mascara—marked down to four-ninety-five last week in Helene’s Specials Basket—was on the bathroom bench-top.
    ‘You used my mascara,’ I said.
    ‘And it’s bloody awful,’ said Laney. ‘I’m gonna have to start all over again.’
    ‘It’s not like anyone’s gonna look at you,’ I said.
    ‘You are such a spoilt brat.’
    ‘And you are such a bitch,’ I said.
    We traded insults for a while, then Laney said something about my mum and I wanted to slap her skinny face. The only thing that stopped me was that she looked so much like Mum it felt wrong.
    Then Bamps appeared from out of nowhere to try to smooth things over. Laney pushed me out of the way and squared up to him like they were in a boxing ring.
    ‘Are you gonna wash her mouth out with soap?’ she shouted. ‘Or does she get away with it too? It’s Sandy all over again, Dad. And look where it got her. This house isn’t big enough for three of us.’
    Bamps just stood his ground. ‘Tully’s got just as much right to be here as you have, Laney. We look after our own.’
    Then Laney did the big exit scene, which got spoiled when she tripped on the ripped carpet. Bamps ignored her and asked me if I could go to the chemist for him. It was a bit early, but I went anyway. I didn’t stop to get my wallet or phone. Maybe things would have turned out different if I had. Anyway, the Loserville Party in front of the chemist was in full swing when I got to the closed doors. I guess it was Christmas Eve. The same kid from school I’d seen before was kicking at the gutter like he was trying to get something off his shoe.
    A little Asian lady was grabbing onto the jeep in front of her like it was the only thing holding her up. She was standing right up against the door like she was definitely going to be the first one in and no one was going to stop her. A guy with long black hair and short legs gave me the eye so I threw him a greasy until he looked away.
    I could see Helene behind the glass doors.