Читать книгу Flawed / Perfect - Cecelia Ahern, Cecelia Ahern - Страница 39

Day one.

I’m home, propped up in my bed by a dozen cushions, organised by Mum, who keeps stepping back to take a look at her work before fluffing and punching again, as if it were a work of art. If she can’t fix me, she can fix the image around me. This is all for the visit of Dr Smith, our family GP. After inspecting my dressings, he sits in the chair by my bed and looks at Mum as he answers her questions.

“A burn of the tongue will look and feel different, depending on the degree of the burn. A first-degree burn injures the outermost layer of the tongue. This leads to pain and swelling. A second-degree burn is more painful because it injures the outermost and under layers of the tongue. Blisters may form, which is what has happened here, and the tongue, as in her case, appears swollen. A third-degree burn affects the deepest tissue of the tongue. The effect is white or blackened, burnt skin. Numbness or severe pain.”

Or both.

Dr Smith sighs, his friendly grandfather face showing that he is clearly finding this difficult.

“She appears to have received the correct medical attention at the castle. Her tongue is not infected, the blistering will eventually go away. Her taste buds have been destroyed—”

“Not that she’s eating anyway,” Mum interrupts.

“That’s to be expected. Celestine has been through an ordeal. Her appetite will eventually return, as will her taste buds, which regenerate every two weeks. The severe, untreatable pain that she is experiencing now can sometimes lead to feelings of depression and anxiety.”

You don’t say.

Mum purses her lips and lifts her chin. I watch them talk to each other, over me, across my bed, as if I’m not here.

“Most burns heal within two weeks; however, some can last up to six weeks.”

He looks at me sadly, as if remembering I’m here.

“There is one more thing,” he adds. “There is a … sixth brand …” He seems uncomfortable mentioning it.

Mum looks at him in panic. He leaves the sentence hanging.

“We’ve known each other a long time, Summer,” he says gently. “I’ve seen Celestine and this family through measles and chicken pox, vaccines and whatever else. I can assure you of my utmost discretion in this matter.”

She nods again, and I can see the fear in her. She wasn’t in the chamber when the final two sears happened, none of my family was, and I don’t want to talk about it. Ever. I don’t even know if Mr Berry shared it with her. But she’s my mother, and she was there. So she can guess what Crevan did in the state he was in, and she is respecting my silence, though I know Dad wants to know. The question is on the tip of his tongue every time he looks at me, but he holds back, probably holding himself responsible for encouraging me to speak up for myself and landing myself in this agony. I don’t think either of them could imagine, even in their wildest nightmares, that it could have been Crevan who delivered the sixth and final brand.

“I’ll come back in a few days to review the dressings again, but if there’s anything I can do before that, contact me directly.”

I don’t bother to nod.

Everyone speaks on my behalf now anyway. They speak about me like I’m not in the room.

I’m not here.

I close my eyes and allow the pills I’ve just taken to help me drift away again.

Day two.

Sleep. Nothing but sleep, and pain, and disturbed dreams.

Day three.

There’s a knock on my door, and I close my eyes. Mum enters. I know it’s her from the perfume scent and the effortless, perfect way she glides in and sits without disturbing a thing. After a while, she speaks.

“I know you’re awake.”

I keep my eyes closed.

“That was Tina at the door. Tina from Highland Castle. She was asking for you. It took a lot for her to come here, especially with, you know, them outside. She knew you wouldn’t want to see her. She just wanted to give you these.”

I open my eyes and see a box of pretty cupcakes. Pink, lilac, blue and yellow, with glittery edible flowers and butterflies on top.

“She said her daughter made them for you. You can eat one this week,” she says, trying to make that sound fabulous.

One luxury a week is all a Flawed is allowed to have. It is part of the basic living we must abide by, so that we can purify ourselves. We must eat staple foods, nothing luxurious or fancy, nothing considered unnecessary for our bodies, for our life. Basics. Our intake is measured at the end of every day by a test I’ve yet to experience.

“And she brought you this, too.” Mum hands me a bag.

It’s a Highland Castle tourist shop paper bag, which I feel is highly inappropriate. If she thinks I want a trinket to remember the worst experience of my life, she is sorely mistaken.

Inside the bag is a box. I barely want to open it, but curiosity gets the better of me. Inside the box is a snow globe, enclosing a miniature Highland Castle. I shake it lightly, and the red glittering particles are churned around inside the glass. Extremely inappropriate. Even Mum views it with distaste. I’m surprised by Tina, but I’m sure she was trying to be kind, maybe even say sorry, or that’s my own wishful thinking. I put the globe back in its box and straight into my bedside locker. I don’t want to ever see it again.

I close my eyes.

Day four.

I have a visitor. Angelina Tinder sits beside my bed, dressed in head-to-toe black, which is a look I’ve never seen on her before. She looks like a lady from Victorian times grieving her dead husband. She is wearing fingerless leather gloves to hide the branding on her hand. Her long piano fingers are as pale as snow beneath the leather. She’s not allowed to wear these when she’s out in public, but she can hide it in her own home if she wishes. She is not in her own home. She is breaking a rule. Though it’s not me she is hiding it from, it is herself. She sits upright in the chair, looking at me rarely, just enough to see if I’m listening now, and then she speaks.

Her eyes are rimmed with red, as if she hasn’t stopped crying since she was branded. The tip of her nose is red, too. She is paler than I have ever seen her, as though she hasn’t seen the sun in weeks.

“You’ll have a Whistleblower appointed to you,” she says. “They’re giving you mine. She’s senior. A horrible woman with nothing better to do with her time. She’d volunteer for the post even if she wasn’t paid. Mary May is her name. Calls herself a Christian woman. She’s the same kind of woman who was burning other women at the stake. She won’t give you an inch, Celestine, you remember that.” She quickly glances at me, then away again. “She’s looking to catch you out. She thinks you’re disgusting.” She sniffs as if smelling a bad odour herself. “But they are. The Flawed. Absolutely disgusting. We are not them, Celestine, and don’t ever let them think that of you. Though, what on earth were you thinking helping that Flawed man to his seat? Saying all that in the courtroom? It’s everywhere, you know that. The footage of you on the bus has gone viral.” She looks at me, her face twisted in confusion and disgust.

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. I wouldn’t anyway.

“Be home by ten thirty. They say eleven, but she’ll be waiting for you, and anything can happen. Allow for delays, mistakes, anything. They will probably even try to trip you up. They’re always testing. I missed the curfew once. I won’t miss it again, I can assure you.” She thinks for a moment. “She’ll test you every evening to make sure you’re sticking to your basic meals, and a lie detector test to ensure you’re telling the truth about following all rules. They rely on these to work. They can’t keep their eyes on you all the time, but God knows they’ll create something soon enough in those laboratories. A camera sewn into our head or something, seeing everything we see, hearing everything we think. Because that’s what they want to know, you know. It’s like they want to crawl inside us, under our skin.”

She sniffs again and scratches at her arms. I look at her fingers and see that they’re trembling.

She sees me looking at them.

“They won’t stop. I can’t play any more. It’s like they’re not mine any more.”

She leaves a silence, and I try to prepare for the next onslaught, which inevitably comes. “It’s awful. A woman looked at me today as though I had murdered every one of her children. I would rather they had killed me instead of living like this.”

I’m glad my tongue is so damaged that I can’t speak. I wouldn’t know what to say.

“Good luck, Celestine.”

She stands and leaves the room.

Mum comes to my room later with a hopeful look on her face. “Did that help, sweetheart?”

I close my eyes and drift away.

Day five.

I wake up. And just as I have done every day for the past four days since I’ve come home, I force myself to go back to sleep. I realise it was not all a nightmare. It is true. Sleep is my only friend these days, so I roll on to my side, for my back is in too much pain, move my head on the pillow so that my temple doesn’t brush the fabric, try not to crease the skin on my chest so that it doesn’t sting and leave my right hand flat and open, the dressings preventing me from closing it anyway. This is the only way I can find respite, though for a girl of definitions, I use the term respite lightly.

I have not left my room for four days. I have left my bed only to go to the bathroom. Apart from Dr Smith and Angelina Tinder, Mum, Dad and Juniper have been the only others I’ve seen. They’re shielding Ewan from me, and I agree. Mum has tended to me night and day, cleaning my wounds, changing my dressings, putting whatever potions and lotions on them to take away the pain, to fight off infection. I have woken some nights to find Juniper sitting in the chair beside my bed staring into space; and then when I wake again, she is gone, so I wonder if it was merely a dream. Things were awkward and stilted between us when I returned from the castle. Though I know she did not plan for any of this to happen to me and it’s not her fault, something is bubbling beneath me, an anger over her part in it. She could have come to my aid on the bus, and she could have testified in court that I didn’t help the old man to a seat. Why couldn’t she have said it? I sensed her guilt as soon as I saw her when I came home, and it made me angry, it made me want to blame her. Anything so as not to blame myself.

I am plied with painkillers, and I like it. They give me a woozy out-of-body experience that takes me away from reality, softens the blow. I am aware, at different stages, of a crowd outside our house, but I don’t watch them and we don’t talk about them. I know when Dad leaves and arrives home from work, not because of the sound of his car engine, but from the camera clicks, the jump to life by the pack, the shutter speeds, the shouted questions. Some are kind, some are disgusting, directed at him as he comes and goes. I never hear his responses, if there are any, but I, too, would like to know if he could still love the most Flawed person in the history of the state.

“Do you love your daughter, Mr North?”

“How can you still love your daughter?” another shouts.

Still, I appreciate the latter’s assumption that there is still love for me at all, despite the fact that they find the very notion bewildering. It would never happen to them, not to someone they love. Impossible. I am poison to some of these people, but I am merely entertainment to others. I learned that from the way I hear some laugh when he drives away and they get back to whatever they were doing, having found the entire thing fun. My life is drama at its mightiest.

I recognise some of their voices. They are the gossip reporters, the news anchors, the familiar voices of my past. And now they’re talking about me. Only it doesn’t sound like me, not that person, just this revved-up version that I don’t recognise. They analyse and dissect my own behaviour with more thought than I’ve ever given it myself. I’m too weak to care about it and too embarrassed to listen to it properly. It is wafting in and out of my ears and mind, and quickly out again. I would rather sleep.

There is a television in my room, but I haven’t turned it on, nor my phone. It’s for the part of me I lost, the invisible part of me that I never knew was essential. The part I gave away to become nothing.

So far, technically, being Flawed has not altered my life. I haven’t been anywhere, haven’t done anything. I have stayed in this bed, and yet I don’t feel the same at all. Not because of the physical scars and ache, either, but I feel different to the bone. Just what Crevan intended.

There’s a knock on the door and I know that it’s Mum. I’ve learned how to tell who’s there, how to recognise the different styles. Dad’s is tentative, hesitant as though he’s afraid of disturbing me; Mum’s is all business, like she belongs in the room. She doesn’t even wait for a reply and enters. I turn over on my back to face her, feeling the pain in my spine as I do so.

“Your dad has worked out a way for people to visit. He’s blacked out the windows of his jeep. So he can meet visitors at the station, then drive them directly into our garage without anyone seeing.”

The garage has direct access to the kitchen, so nobody has to set foot outside the door.

“So if there’s anyone you want to see …”

“Art,” I say simply. Probably the first word I’ve uttered in days. It would be romantic if it weren’t for the circumstances.

She looks down at her hands, as if afraid to answer. I thought he would have visited me by now. I’ve been waiting. Listening. Each time I hear the doorbell, I hope it’s him, but it’s not, it never has been.

“Nobody knows where he is,” Mum says, finally. “After your verdict, he went home and packed his bags and took off.”

“I bet Crevan knows,” I say groggily, my tongue still heavy in my mouth. My throat is dry, and the words don’t come out easily. My tongue feels huge in my mouth. It is this that has been the most difficult sore to deal with as it blisters and scabs.

“No. He’s pretty much going out of his mind trying to find him.”

I smile. Good.

Mum hands me a glass of water with a straw.

“Are people ashamed to visit me? Is that why they’re going through the garage?”

“No.” She pauses. “It’s for privacy. So you can come and go in privacy.”

“I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

“School.”

I look at her in surprise.

“Next week. When you’re healed. You can’t hide in here for ever.”

I strangely hope I’ll never heal, so I never have to leave.

“Besides, they won’t let you stay in any longer. You have to face the world, Celestine.”

I wonder whether she will apply this to herself, too. She looks tired around her eyes. She hasn’t left the house for as long as I have, no visits to her clinic for a pick-me-up, though she will probably want an entirely new face after the scrutiny she has come under. I wonder how all this will affect her work, if she has been dropped from any of her portfolios. It would be naïve to think not. No one can be discriminated against for having a relationship with a Flawed family member. They are not responsible for the actions of their loved ones, but still, people always find a way to get around that. My mum’s life is just another person’s life I’ve ruined.

“Mary May is your Whistleblower. She has stopped by every day; she has been thorough in what we and you are allowed to do. She is … meticulous in her work,” Mum says, and I detect nerves. This woman must be some force of nature. “She has insisted on seeing you every day, but I’ve held her off,” Mum says with a determined look in her eye, and I know it couldn’t have been an easy task. “You’ll meet her in a few days. She’ll run through the rules and then stay with us during dinnertime. She wants to observe that we are abiding by the rules for the first few days. And you will see her every day after that. Each evening she’ll do two tests.”

“Angelina told me,” I interrupt her, not wanting to hear about the invasion again.

“She won’t be in your life apart from that.” She tries to make the daily invasion not sound as bad as it is. “You need to eat something,” she says, looking at my tray filled with food. “You haven’t eaten for days.”

“I can’t taste anything anyway.”

“Dr Smith says your taste buds will come back.”

“I can taste blood, so I must be okay.” Bad joke. And I’m not sure I can taste blood. My tongue is blistered and scabbed, and I just imagine it flowing down my throat whenever I swallow.

Mum winces.

“Maybe it’s better if I never taste again anyway, given the food I have to eat every day of the week for the rest of my life.”

“It’s a healthy diet,” Mum says perkily. “Probably one we should all be eating. And we would, but we’re not allowed to join you, sorry.”

“Are you going to defend everything they do?”

“I’m just trying to look on the bright side, Celestine.”

“There is no fucking bright side.”

“Language,” she says, propping me up with pillows again, but she sounds like she couldn’t care less what I say.

“Are Flawed not allowed to swear, either?”

“I think more than anything, Flawed are entitled to swear,” she says.

We smile.

“There she is,” she whispers, tracing a line around my face with her finger. “My brave baby.”

I look at her properly. “How are you, Mum? You look tired,” I say tenderly.

“I’m fine.” Her resolve weakens. “I’ve booked myself in for an eye-lift,” she says, and we both laugh. It’s the first time she’s ever admitted doing any work to her appearance.

“Where’s Juniper?”

“She’s out at the moment.” She stiffens.

“She’s being funny with me.”

“She’s afraid, darling. She thinks you’re angry with her.”

I think of the sad way she looks at me when she sees me, the gentle tone in her voice when she asks me what she can do for me, and it makes me bark back at her. I’d rather we return to the banter that we used to have. I’m more comfortable with her being irritated by me, but instead now I see her pity. I think of the fact that she didn’t come to my aid on the bus and how she didn’t testify in court. Mum is right; I feel nothing but anger at her. I know I’m wrong, but somehow it is burning inside me.

“Are you angry with Art?” Mum asks. I know the point she is making: How can I be angry with my own sister and not Art? But somewhere deep down, I keep wondering why he didn’t try harder to make it stop. Why couldn’t he convince his dad? But I understand. I once trusted Judge Crevan, and he wouldn’t have expected his own dad to land me in so much trouble.

“Do you think he’ll come to visit?”

She purses her lips and pauses, and I know it’s a no. “I’m sure he just needs to think about a few things. Away from his father,” she says, and I see the anger in her eyes. “But, Celestine –” she thinks about how to say it – “don’t expect him to—”

“I don’t,” I interrupt. “I already know.”

The realistic view would be to believe that Art will never come back to me. I know that. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping. And it doesn’t stop me from dreaming of the way things used to be.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this, but we’re thinking of contacting Mr Berry to discuss the extra brand.”

“No,” I interrupt before she takes it any further.

“Listen, Celestine, it wasn’t part of the original ruling. What happened is unheard of. We want to talk to him to see what your options are—”

“And what might they be?” I say angrily. “Are they going to make it disappear? Is Crevan going to say sorry? No. Just because it’s unheard of it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. It’s Crevan. He does what he likes, and he can do whatever he likes to me again. Promise me you’ll leave it alone.”

She purses her lips and nods. “I understand, Celestine. Your dad wants to protect you; he wants to defend you. Fight for your name.” She smiles softly, loving this part of him. “But I agree with you. I think we should stay silent. If we talk to Mr Berry about it, then I’m afraid we’ll bring more attention to it. I’m not sure if he’s aware of it or not, but your file still says five brands. They haven’t contacted us to update it, and it hasn’t been in any of the media reports. They’ve only mentioned the five. Nobody in the media knows or is talking about a sixth brand.”

Yet. The silent word hangs in the air. This news does offer me some relief. I am still the most branded Flawed person in the world, just not yet known to be the most ridiculously branded. I never thought getting away with five would be a bonus.

Mr Berry knows about my sixth brand already. He saw it happen. I think about telling her, but I don’t. I don’t want to talk about what happened in the chamber. I want to forget. But I can’t. Carrick knows, too.

I see his hand pushed up against the glass, and I hear his voice from the corridor. “I’ll find you.”

I don’t know if I want him to find me like this.

And on that thought, I close my eyes and drift away.

Day six.

I have a nightmare. Juniper is sitting in the chair in my room beside my bed, just staring at me. Our eyes meet, and she smiles a wicked, satisfied smile. I wake up in a sweat, my sheets damp beneath me. Feeling dizzy, I look around. Juniper isn’t there. The house is quiet. It’s midnight. I was sure someone was in my room; I felt a presence. I get out of bed, open my door quietly and pad down the landing, limping as I keep the weight off my branded foot. I listen at Juniper’s door. It’s quiet. I slowly, quietly, push it open. I need to see her there, in bed, fast asleep. Her bed is empty. It hasn’t been slept in.

Day seven.

I meet Mary May for the first time. I am expecting a tank of a woman, instead I meet Mary Poppins. I have seen women dressed as she is before but never understood who they were or what they did. She’s wearing what looks like an ancient nanny uniform: a conservative black dress with a white shirt and black tie. The tie has an embroidered red F. She wears black tights and black brogues. Over her dress she wears a heavy black button-up coat with a wraparound collar and red velvet cuffs. She wears a black bowler hat with a red band and another F on the front. Her hair is pinned up neatly and sits in a bun below the back of her hat. Her face is make-up-free and stern. I’m not good at guessing ages, but she’s in her forties or fifties and is a tiny, birdlike woman. She looks like she’s dressed for the middle of winter. She stares at me as I walk in. She looks me up and down, as I have done with her.

“Hi,” I say. I’m not sure whether to shake her hand. The heavy black leather gloves tell me not to attempt it.

“I’m Mary May, your Whistleblower for the foreseeable future. You are aware of the rules, or shall I go through them again?”

I shake my head.

“Verbal communication,” she snaps.

“No, I mean, yes,” I stammer. “I understand the rules.” I’m nervous because I don’t want to make a mistake, I don’t want to be punished again. I don’t know what’s right and wrong, what’s expected of me in this new world. I’ve read the rules, I’ve been told about them, but the reality is quite different. My family is all sitting at the table watching me with her. I can feel the tension in the room. I can’t make a mistake. Not again.

She likes how she has unnerved me. I see the smile in her eyes.

I sit for dinner for the first time since I’ve returned. A regular family dinner. Mary May remains in the corner, hat, coat and gloves still on, her presence as calming as the Grim Reaper’s. Mum has turned on music to fill the uncomfortable silence. Juniper is at the table, eyes down that nervously flit to me when she thinks I’m not looking. The more scared of me she acts, the angrier she makes me feel. Ewan won’t stop staring at me, as though I’m not here to see him.

“What’s she eating?” he asks, looking at my plate of food with disgust.

“They’re grains,” Mum says. “They’re pumpkin seeds. And that’s salmon.”

“It looks like dog food.”

It smells like dog food.

The others are eating chicken and rice. The chicken looks dry and the rice claggy, and I wonder if it is deliberately so. Mum has also cooked cabbage, which she knows that I hate. I can see she is trying to help me, to make this easier for me. I know Mum has tried to keep it basic, but I still want to eat what they’re eating. I don’t want their food because it looks better than mine, or because I’m remotely hungry, because I’m not. I want it because it’s what I should be having. I want it because I’ve been told I can’t. I wonder, again, where this part of me has sprung from. I was the girl who followed the rules; I was on their side. I never questioned anything. Now I find myself on the wrong side of everything, questioning everything. This must be how Juniper felt every day. I look at her. She has her head down and is playing with her food. Once again it irritates me that she isn’t eating it. She can eat it. She has the right and she’s barely touching it. She looks up just then, sees the look on my face, swallows and looks away again.

Ewan is staring at me. At the dressings on my hand, covering my temple. He eyes my chest curiously.

“Mum, Dad,” he whines. “She keeps looking at me.”

“Shut up, Ewan,” Juniper spits.

“She’s allowed to look at you,” Dad snaps. “She’s your sister.”

Ewan continues eating, in a huff.

“You know you’re allowed to speak directly to me, Ewan,” I say softly, finding strength within me to be gentle. He’s my little brother. I don’t want him to be afraid of me.

He looks startled that I’ve addressed him.

“Could you pass me the salt, please?” I ask.

It’s closest to Ewan. He freezes. “I’m not allowed to help you. Mum, Dad,” he whines again, absolutely terrified. He looks to Mary May, who is sitting in the corner of the kitchen, observing with her notepad and pen.

My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel like I’ve been punched, as if the air has gone out of me. I have caused such terror on my own baby brother’s face.

“Oh come on!” Juniper yells at him, picks up the salt and bangs it down in front of me. “You’re allowed to pass her the salt.”

They all continue eating in silence.

I watch them, like robots, heads down, shovelling food into their mouths. All except Juniper. I know none of them wants to eat. None apart from Ewan, anyway, but they are, and I know they’re doing it for me. I wish Juniper would. I have a bizarre feeling of wanting to force-feed her that chicken. And then I can’t take it any more, the anger, the hatred that I’m feeling towards my own sister. It’s not her fault, and yet I’m blaming her.

I stand up. I take my plate and carry it over to the bin, beside where Mary May sits. I press the pedal to open the bin, and I throw the entire plate inside. I hear it smash as it hits the bottom. She doesn’t even flinch. I stick out my finger, ready for her test. I just want to get this over and done with and go back to bed. She pricks my finger, puts a drop of blood on a test strip and places the strip into a meter that is strapped around her wrist like a watch, which displays my blood results. Instantly, the machine says, “Clear”.

She then puts a contraption on my finger, similar to a pulse oximeter, which is attached by a wire to her wrist sensor, and she asks the question.

“Celestine North, have you followed all Flawed rules today?”

“Yes.” My heart is beating wildly. I know that I have, but what if it says that I haven’t? What if they try to trick me? How truthful are these tests? How can I trust them if they’re controlled by the Guild – they can say I’ve lied even if I haven’t, and it’s their word against mine.

The watch once again gives a brisk, “Clear,” and she removes the device from my fingertip.

I don’t even look back at my family; I feel too humiliated. I go upstairs. I want to sleep.

Sleep, however, doesn’t come. My painkillers have lessened. I don’t feel as distant any more, not as groggy, and I long for that feeling to return. I hear Mary May leave, satisfied that I have obeyed the curfew. I sit at the window and look across the road at Art’s house. It’s large and imposing, the largest house on our cul-de-sac. I suppose you could call it a mansion. It is at the head of the street, looking down on everybody. Crevan’s brother developed it, the one who has shares in the football club, and they wanted to keep those working in Crevan media on the same street. To control us. Why didn’t I see it before? Bob, Dad, Judge Crevan all together on Earth Day. I thought it was so cosy and fun. Now I know it was all about control. The many windows in Art’s house are all dark. There must not be anybody home. The only life I’ve seen come and go over the past few days is Hilary, their housekeeper. I understand that he can’t visit, that there are too many journalists and photographers outside for him to be able to do that, especially if he is in hiding from his dad, but no real harm could come from visiting me. It’s not illegal. It would be a show of disrespect to his father, but isn’t he doing that anyway? Or failing that, a phone call, a text, or a letter like the one he sent me when I was in the castle would show that he cares, that he’s thinking of me. Just something. Anything.

I wouldn’t think that a visit to the Flawed could be seen as aiding, though I know that one minute in his arms would save me completely. Even though I’d tell anyone who’d listen that I know there’s no hope for me and Art now, deep down, it still makes sense to me. It could still happen. It would just mean his taking a stand against his father once and for all, and it could be me and him against most of the world.

I scroll to his name in my mobile phone and press call. I know what will happen: the same thing that has happened for the last couple of days. It goes straight to answer phone. But I listen to the sound of his voice, jovial and always close to laughter, a cheeky look on his face, and then I hang up.

Downstairs I hear Ewan get a firm talking-to, a going-over of the rules.

I pretend to sleep and feel both Mum and Dad kiss me good night. I hear them go to bed. Talking in low voices and then nothing.

And exactly what I was anticipating happens next. I hear Juniper sneaking out.