Prologue
Fifteen Years Ago
Jem
The front door slams.12:16 a.m. He’s late.
When he’s late, everything is worse.
The shouting starts and the TV volume rises too—but this never drowns the argument. The neighbours in our row of terraced houses must hear but nobody ever speaks to us. Nobody involves themselves.
I can deal with the shouting but the quiet afterwards turns my stomach and leaves me torn between creeping downstairs to see Mum, and hiding in my bedroom.
I’m a coward. She’s my mum. I should be with her to help.
I tried once, last month, and Alan belted me for interfering. The next morning, Mum screamed at me, blamed me for making things worse.I made things worse. Mum worried because my bruises were on the side of my face; she can hide her bruises under clothes. I’ve seen them—she doesn’t think I have. The school asked questions but Alan was careful and ensured those and the bruises in the following weeks weren’t visible, so I could hide them.
I didn’t tell anybody. Mum said people will take me away if somebody knows, and I don’t want to lose her completely.
Tonight, I grab my headphones and turn up the volume, drowning the fear and anger with the sound of Metallica. I lie back and stare at the ceiling, allowing the guitar and screaming vocals to take over, to numb myself, and stop my need to run downstairs and help. He’ll kick the crap out of me if I interfere. Instead, I close my eyes and watch the red and black colours of the music dancing through my mind, obliterating thoughts.
One day I won’t be a kid. One day I can look after Mum, and she won’t leave me alone. She’d needmeinstead of the men who come into our life, who tear our world apart and leave again. I’ll be a teenager in two years, almost a man. If I’m not enough, and Mum doesn’t want me, I’ll be big enough to take care of myself when she leaves me again.
I can already look after myself, when she goes away. I’m older and not scared any more. As a little kid, I’d sleep with a baseball bat by my bed in case somebody came into the house. Now I’m bigger, I’m not such a baby about these things—this is just my life. Mum always comes back, even if she doesn’t tell me when she’s going away or why. Sometimes Mum is gone for a couple of days. That’s okay. If the time stretches into weeks, I worry in case she’s hurt or lost.
I never tell anybody.
The thoughts edge through the music.
If I was older and I could look after Mum, she’d be safer.
If I was a good enough son for her, I wouldn’t be alone.
What do I do wrong that makes her leave me?
What if one day my mum never comes back?