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little.’
    There are quite a few very unladylike words then and she hangs up. I stare at the phone. Then the toilet flushes and all the blood from my body seems to be replaced by iced water as I think
about what I’ve done.
    I hurry off to my bedroom and push a full chest of drawers up against the door. Mum’s right, I’m an idiot and I don’t help myself.
    I hear sounds outside and can picture what’s happening. Pigface sees he’s got a missed call and then dials Yasmine’s number. I know I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake
and, sure enough, a few minutes later I hear raised voices and I think about jumping out the window when there’s an ear-splitting . . .

    . . . and Pigface is throwing his full weight against the door. I crawl backwards onto the bed and watch in horror as the doorframe actually starts to split apart. The chest of drawers is
shifting sideways and I know that Pigface has gone way beyond the point of caring about the furniture. I throw open the bedroom window but have only just got my head out when I hear him burst into
the room and his arms are round my waist dragging me back to the floor. He flips me over onto my back and squats over me, his eyes wild and a dangly bit of spit hanging off the side of his mouth
like a rabid dog.
    ‘Look, Ryan, it was only a joke! I didn’t mean to —’
    ‘Think you can make a monkey out of me, do you?’ he screams and starts to punch me. The last thing I remember is reaching for the football trophy next to my bed and then
there’s nothing at all.

 

    V oices come and go in surging waves and something’s tugging at me. Not my body, but inside my head.
    I say, ‘Not yet, I’m not ready!’ for some reason, and my eyes snap open.
    It’s morning. I’m in bed, fully clothed.
    I can hear the radio on in the kitchen. I get up slowly, giving my ribs an experimental pat to see how bad they are. But they feel fine and when I pull up my T-shirt there are no bruises. I go
into the kitchen and Mum’s in there smoking and drinking a cup of tea. She looks up at me, but doesn’t seem especially curious about anything.
    ‘Tea in the pot,’ she says, stubbing out her fag and patting the back of her hair.
    I lean on the table as my words coming rushing out. ‘Ryan beat me up! He could have killed me!’
    She frowns, then smiles. ‘What are you talking about, Cal?’
    For God’s sake! She’s not going to believe me, is she? Either that, or Des will have persuaded her I was in the wrong. I can see them all sitting around the table discussing it,
while I was out cold.
    ‘You’ve got to believe me, Mum! He’s completely out of control! He came into my room and started battering me and —’
    Mum gives a funny laugh. ‘Who did, Cal?’ Like every word I’ve said was incomprehensible.
    ‘Ryan!’ I shout this time, unable to control myself a second longer. ‘Bloody Ryan! He attacked me! He’s out of control!’
    Mum stops smiling. ‘Cal, you’ve obviously had some kind of nightmare . . .’ She pauses. ‘You’re not making any sense. Who’s Ryan?’
    Someone stops the clock.
    I can hear every noise in the house, from the water in the pipes, to the gentle hum of the fridge.
    I can hear Mum breathing and my own blood whooshing round my veins.
    Maybe if neither of us speaks again, we can forget how mental this moment is and carry on as normal.
    But instead I take a deep breath, swallow, and say, ‘OK, not sure what’s going on here but you know who Ryan is. He’s Des’s son, isn’t he? You know, Desmondo? Lover
boy? Your darling husband?’
    Mum turns away and reaches for her handbag, shoving her ciggies in the top. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you this morning,’ she says, ‘but you’ll be late
for the programme if you don’t hurry up.’
    ‘Late for what programme?’
    ‘Late for school , Cal! I said SCHOOL! Remember school? OK, there’s my lift. Better get going!’
    Chills zigzag up my neck. Mum walks briskly out the