Читать книгу Dead Wrong - Noelle Holten - Страница 22

Bill had heard voices for as long as he could remember. It had started with the weed, but he’d graduated to heroin and other class A drugs just before his eighteenth birthday. The whispers had only got worse. His parents were so fucked on crack that they barely noticed; his mother a schizo like him who never went to her appointments. Bill was raised off and on by his grandmother from the age of nine, and she was the only person who made him feel loved. He missed her home, his childhood home. So many happy memories, all lost when she had to sell it and move into a smaller place. She had died before any of the crimes came to light and he attended her funeral knowing that she would never learn of this period in his life. One day he would be free to leave flowers on her grave.

Whenever things had become too much, and the cravings returned, he thought about his waste-of-space mother. The beatings, the way she leaned close and screamed, spittle showering his face …

‘So how has everything been since my last visit, Mrs Raven?’ The woman looked around the room and must have noticed the dirty walls and smell from the couch as she rubbed her nose.

‘Just great. He’s been a good boy, haven’t you darlin’?’ He flinched when she tried to ruffle his hair.

‘Really? Only the school have been in touch …’ The woman frowned as Bill crawled with embarrassment into the corner. ‘One of his teachers told me that Bill smelled funny, like he never washed, and they had seen nasty bruises on his legs and arms.’

His mother glared at him before turning around and flashing a smile at the social worker. ‘There must be some mistake.’ She looked at the broken watch she wore on her wrist. ‘Oh, is that the time? We’ll have to reschedule as Billy has an appointment and we can’t be late.’ His mother pointed at the door.

The social worker left reluctantly, glancing back at Bill and smiling. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

All hell broke loose when his mother came back into the room.

‘You little piece of shit. Are you trying to get me in trouble?’ She poked him in his chest, but he didn’t understand why. He never did.

‘I … I didn’t say anything, Mum … I swear.’ He clenched his hands repeatedly.

‘You fucking little liar. Dirty, piece of shit. I should throw you out with the rubbish. That’s all you are, a piece of dirty trash. The rats can have you.’ And then the blows came, raining down on him until his mother had exhausted herself and needed her drink or drugs, whatever she had in the house.

Bill dragged himself up the stairs, into his bedroom where he lay on the floor. Shivering cold. His mother never washed or changed the sheets on his bed. The smell of piss burned his nose.

One day she would see who the piece of trash was.