Crow Stone

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When my father returned, he came straight upstairs to my room. I was sitting on the bed, trying to take in a chapter of my history textbook on the Corn Laws, though all the time I could think only of what my father’s feet would sound like on the stairs.

He was even faster than usual; I had no chance. He crossed to the bed, and dealt me one hard heavy blow to the side of my head. I was knocked backwards, shooting an arm out to save myself and making the briefest of contacts with his merciless right hand. I crashed against the framed photo of my mother on the bedside table. It fell to the floor, and the frame and glass shattered.

All my father said was ‘Pick that up.’ He was trembling. Then he left the room.

My head sang with pain. I lay back on the bed, breathing hard, feeling no surprise, only the usual hollowness. I waited till I felt less dizzy, then picked up the photo of my mother, shaking the smashed glass into the waste-paper bin and reminding myself not to walk barefoot until I had had a chance to Hoover properly. I placed the broken frame and the photo back on the bedside table, propping it against the lamp.

Some of the hollowness was hunger, but I didn’t dare go downstairs. My heart was still thudding, but I made myself finish the chapter of history and trace a map of the Somerset coalfield for geography homework before I got into bed. It was still light outside, and for a while I lay awake, listening to the sound of the hi-fi downstairs playing Bobby Darin and Roy Orbison. It was my fault, of course. I shouldn’t have let Trish and Poppy come back.

But I also kept remembering Gary Bennett’s face. I thought his eyes had met mine, through the binoculars. I was sure he had winked.