For Dawne, Susie, Susannah, Rachel, Helen,

Emma, Becky and Clea…

May we dance in this glorious fire of tea-drinking, wine-sipping, heart-sharing friendship until our old bones return to dust and all that laughter and all those tears are heard as Love, echoing through the glittering hallways of eternity. X

For Mathilda, Freddie and Ella…

For your truly wonderful dads, Mike and Pete, you touch my heart with your enthusiasm and generosity – thank you both so much. x

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Foreword by Andy McCullough

Then

Chapter 1 - When Amy arrived

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 - When that happened

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12 - A while ago

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24 - One week ago

Chapter 25

Chapter 26 - Now

Acknowledgements

Afterword by John Bird

An Excerpt from A Sea of Stars

An Excerpt from A Million Angels

An Excerpt from Glitter

An Excerpt from Shine

About the Author

Also by Kate Maryon

Copyright

About the Publisher

Foreword by Andy McCullough – Head of Policy for the charity Railway Children

You may be surprised to know 100,000 children in the UK run away from home or care every year. Many are thrown out, no longer wanted in the family. The majority of children say family problems and issues are the main reason for them running.

Often when you end up running away you feel you have got rid of your problems; however, you usually substitute them for other problems. Being out on the streets is lonely, cold and really dangerous. We know that there are always people who will exploit young people and use them for profit and power.

I have worked in the field of social care for over twenty-seven years, but some of my training was as a child myself, spending a lot of time on the streets, having run away. I met a lot of good people whilst out there, people who had grown up in care, been kicked out by their family or had become detached, but always, like a dark shadow, there were people who wanted to use you to make sure they were better off.

Gabriella’s story is an important one to hear. Who knows, it may make you think a little differently when you pass a child on the streets…

Railway Children is a registered charity, no.1058991

Visit www.railwaychildren.org.uk

Most days drift by like clouds. Others burn deep into your life and make a blister, like a bright white moon in a black night sky.

And you’re left wondering, forever.

Then, I might as well have been invisible for all Dad and Amy cared. They’d been busy making massive decisions about my life without even thinking about me, or bothering about how I might feel. They’d obviously been plotting and planning for weeks, whispering under the covers at night, painting the walls of our flat with lies.

The day had been creeping towards me like a tiger in the dark with its amber eyes glinting, for ages. The shouting had been getting worse. Dad had started spending more and more money we didn’t have. He’d broken his promise and started using credit cards again, to keep Amy happy. But it didn’t work. Amy just got madder and madder, her screeching making her face flush pink and her lips turn white with rage.

What’s strange is that the day it actually happened everything seemed so normal. Dad ignored me, his eyes glued to Daybreak on the telly and Amy hogged the bathroom for so long I thought I was going to wet myself. In the end I couldn’t wait any longer, so I picked up my bag and raced off to school with a piece of toast and jam between my teeth without even saying goodbye.

If I’d known I was never going to sleep in my bed again or sit on our sofa or lie in our bath under the bubbles, I might’ve snuggled down in the warm a bit longer, soaked up that feeling of home. I might have given Dad a kiss, begged him to change his mind; at least I could’ve asked him why. I’d definitely have grabbed more toast.

Toast would’ve been good because I had no idea how hungry I’d get, or how cold.

The most annoying thing though, apart from what Dad did, is that he didn’t put my little photo of Beckett with the letter. I hadn’t seen or heard from Beckett or Mum for seven years, nothing at all since the day they left. So not having the photo made everything so much harder.

Things were fine when it was just Dad and me. We never really talked about anything important, but we were OK. I missed Beckett loads and wished he could’ve stayed with us, but I was relieved Mum had gone. I hadn’t felt scared in the morning for ages. I hadn’t had to hide under my covers at night, smothering my sobs by biting on Blue Bunny’s ear. And although Dad never bought flowers, like my best friend Grace’s mum does every Friday, our flat was still nice; it was our cosy home.

But that was before Amy came along and ruined everything. I could tell she didn’t want me around from the start. The way she kept glaring at me and sighing; the way she got into a huff if Dad so much as even looked at me. She kept clinging to him like tangled ivy up a wall, batting her spidery eyelashes, whispering in his ear. If I were a piece of old furniture, Amy could have taken me along to the tip with all the other old stuff that belonged to Mum. It would’ve made it much easier for her to chuck me out of her life, to pretend I’d never existed.

The worst thing was, Dad didn’t even tell me she was moving in. I was there, digging through the iceberg in the freezer, looking for chips to go with eggs for our tea and she arrived with a million black bin liners, bulging with stuff…

“Where on earth d’you expect me to put my things, Dave,” she says, clattering up the hallway, “when this place is so full of junk?”

She opens and closes our cupboard doors, slams around the flat like she owns it. She goes into my room and starts rearranging my stuff, kicking my scrapbook things under my bed, picking bits of fluff off the floor. I can’t believe my eyes. She stands there with her hands on her hips, tutting like a bird, rolling her eyes like a mad person.

“Put them wherever you like, babe,” Dad says. “You know, make yourself at home.”

I wanted to punch Dad then, to wake him up. He’d gone all floppy and pathetic like he used to be with Mum, like a big stupid fat lump of dough. Why did he do this? Why can’t he tell her to get lost so we can eat our eggs and chips in peace and watch the telly?

Dad opens his arms wide and pulls Amy in so tight his big belly bulges like whale blubber around her.

“And you, Mister,” she says, pulling away from him and jabbing at his belly with her sharp red fingernail, “need to shed a few pounds.” She pats him like he was her puppy. “Can’t have my man being a big old fathead, can I?”

“Look, babe,” says Dad, slapping Amy’s bum, “what’s mine is yours. You’re the woman of the house now. Do what you like with the place. I don’t care.”

That was the wrong thing to say because:

1. I do care.

2. Amy does just that.

Later on she starts pulling the flat apart, rearranging it, putting all her stinky air freshener plug-in things and stupid ornaments all over the place. She clutters up the bathroom with loads of body scrubs and sprays and mountains of make-up.

“Ew!” she says, leaning over the chip pan, almost choking me to death in a swirl of perfume. “What on earth d’you call that?”

My cheeks burn hotter than the chip fat.

“Egg and chips,” I say. “I’m making tea for Dad.”

Amy laughs like a hyena in The Lion King. She rests her hand on her forehead, dramatically, and starts staggering about the kitchen on her pink high heels.

“You’re not seriously gonna eat that rubbish she’s making you, Dave, are you? You might die from food poisoning! Quick! Quick! Fumigate the place! We might all die!”

Dad leans against the fridge and sighs.

I freeze, stiller than a statue, and watch the edges of the chips frizzle and burn while these huge invisible hands slide inside me and scrunch my tummy up tight.

“Nah, babe,” Dad says. “You’re right! We’ve got a real woman in the house now; we don’t need to eat that old muck. You can cook proper grub for us, right, babe?”

Amy laughs and rolls her eyes, the little red veins threading over them like rivers.

“If you think I’m gonna be a slave to your kitchen, Dave,” she says, poking his belly, “you’ve got another think coming. I’m your girlfriend, remember, not your freaking wife!”

Dad opens the fridge and peers inside. He sniffs a carton of gone-off milk, reeling backwards with the stink.

“How about a takeaway?” says Amy. “You know… celebration time!”

She starts digging in his pockets for his wallet, tugging at his shirt, her bony hands moving all over him. Dad pulls away; his ears glowing as red as a throbbing sore.

“Not tonight, eh, babe?” he says, nudging her away. “Let’s save it for the weekend. We’ll have the egg and chips, shall we? Gabriella’s done them now. I promised her we’d sit together to eat and watch telly. Shame to waste them.”

Amy puckers her lips so tight they remind me of a hamster’s bottom.

“You’re not gonna turn into a mean man now I’ve moved in, are you, Dave?” she says, jabbing her elbow in his ribs. “You know what they say about mean men.”

A line of sweat bubbles above Dad’s top lip. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and digs his fat fingers in to get at the cash. He sighs and all his strength kind of drains away like water.

“All right then,” he says, “anything you like.” He turns to me. “Gabriella, run down to Chang’s, will you?”

“Good idea, Dave,” says Amy, giggling, wriggling her way into his arms, nibbling at his ear. She glares at me and holds Dad tight like she’s won him as a prize.

I ignore Dad and watch the burny bits creep along the chips until every one is black and smoke is billowing into the kitchen. Amy starts flapping her arms like mad.

“I’m gonna choke, Dave!” she squawks. “Open the window, will you, you stupid old fat bum!” She puts her hands on her hips and stares at me. “I’m the woman of the house, Gabriella Midwinter, your dad just said so. So you’ll keep your grubby hands out of my kitchen and get sharpish at tidying up that bedroom of yours. Do you hear?”

My heart thumps in my ears. I glare at her through the swirls of black smoke. My room is none of her business.

“I like it in a mess,” I say. “I know where everything is and Dad doesn’t mind.”

She moves towards me, her shoes clip-clopping on the kitchen floor, her waggling finger pointing. “Well, young lady,” she says, pushing her face so close to mine I can see the streaks of fake tan on her cheeks, “things are about to change round here. I’m the boss now. So you’d better get used to it.”

My legs are trembling. “But it’s not your flat, Amy,” I say. “It’s ours. And Dad’s the boss. I like my room how it is.”

“This place is a disgrace,” she snaps. “The council would slap a health warning on it if they came for a visit!”

I wish Dad would charge forward and pull her away from me. I wish he’d tell her I can have my room how I like. Instead, he pulls a can of lager out the fridge, snaps it open and takes a long cool sip. He pours a glass of wine for Amy that reminds me of blood, and looks at her and then at me. He sighs, handing me a wodge of cash. I glare at him.

“Dad!” I say. “We can’t afford takeaway—”

“Gabriella,” he interrupts, “don’t be boring. Be a good girl and go and get the food.”

“And make sure you get my order right, Miss Flappy Ears,” says Amy. “I want beef with black bean sauce.”

I’m glad to leave the flat. The air outside is warm and the sun’s turning red in the sky. I stare at it for ages, watching it sink lower and lower. I wish I had some paints with me. I wish I were a proper artist with a real easel and proper brushes and a little stool and an actual canvas. I would really love to paint that sun.

The queue at Chang’s is long. But I don’t mind. I sit and watch the fishes swim round and round the tank, in and out of a little blue castle that’s nestled in the gravel. Round and round and round, weaving through the plants. I wonder if they ever get bored?

I feel like a fish sometimes, going from home to school and back again. Round and round, to town or the park or Grace’s. Dad and me never go anywhere fun. We never do anything special. If Grace invites me on one of her famous expeditions my tank gets a little bit bigger for the day, but it doesn’t happen very often. Zoe and Elsie from my class have amazing lives full of glitter and lip-gloss shimmer, full of popcorn and pony trekking and soft pink leotards with white net tutus for ballet dancing.

I like Friday afternoons when the Play Rangers come to our estate and make us hot chocolate and we toast marshmallows on a fire. We build camps from blue plastic and rotten wood, and run around playing games, squealing at the top of our lungs. But I can still see our flat from the green. I can still see Mrs McKlusky’s tartan slippers fringed with the soft tufts of cotton, shuffling about. I can still hear her mumbling words rude enough to make your ears sting.

Grace came to Play Rangers once and thought it was the best thing ever. My tummy felt warm then, that I had something special to share. Dad keeps promising he’ll come and watch us one day. He keeps promising to fix us a rope swing in the tree on the green.

I order crispy duck for Amy and wish I could tell Chang to put poison on it. But I don’t in case Dad eats it or me. I worry in case one of us dies or if Amy dies and Dad gets sent to prison. Sometimes my heart burns hot with worry. My tummy gets in tangles because who would care for me if Dad was gone? Grace is lucky. Grace has a nice mum and a nice dad. She has two grannies and a grandpa and all sorts of special aunties and uncles and cousins who send her things in the post. Things wrapped in shiny paper with ribbons so colourful I just want to snip them up and make beautiful patterns with the scraps.

When I get back home the flat is quiet with a note on Dad’s bedroom door saying, DO NOT DISTURB. I push my ear against the cold paintwork to listen. Dad’s laughing, Amy’s squealing, their music is blaring.

I grab a fork from the kitchen, shut myself in the front room and put the telly on so loud I know that Mrs McKlusky will bang on the wall with her broom.

I don’t care about Dad and Amy. I’m glad they’re not with me because I can stretch right out on the sofa with my feet up and all the cushions are mine. I can watch my favourite hospital programme in peace. There’s been this big car crash and people are dead, but some are still alive, groaning. My favourite paramedic girl with the soft, kind voice is coming to the rescue. I watch carefully, trying to work out how the make-up artists make all the gashes and bruises look so real.

When I’ve finished my chicken chow mein I lick my fingers and slide my tongue across my lips to keep the taste going on for a little bit longer. I dig into the mountain of prawn crackers, dipping them in the sweet chilli sauce, cramming them into my mouth, tasting them prickle and melt. Dad’s sweet and sour pork smells so good I can’t stop myself from dipping my fingers in its sticky red juice and licking them like lollipops.

And I know he won’t mind because you could easily lay my dad on the floor and wipe your muddy feet all over him and he wouldn’t say one thing. You could slap him round the face, like Mum used to, and he’d just slide off into the bedroom to hide. Like I’d slide under my bed and get as close to the wall as I could. As far away as possible, so she couldn’t get to me with her sharp slaps or see how much the big purple bruises they left on my skin hurt.

I can’t stop fretting that Dad’ll miss his tea and be starving. Amy’s food is sitting on the edge of the coffee table, staring at me, daring me to touch it. I won’t eat it. I’d never do that. But this idea starts swimming round and round my head like Chang’s fishes, pressing in on my skin.

I write ‘beef in black bean sauce’ on the lid so it looks like Chang made a mistake with the order. Then I peel off the lid and rest it on the side. I breathe in crispy duck dare. I put my face close and let spit dribble out and melt into the sauce. I stir my fork round and round then put the lid back on so neat that unless Amy is a detective she’ll never find out.

When my favourite lady on the hospital programme has finished crying into her boyfriend’s arms because she didn’t save the people in time, I watch this other one about cooking in Italy. They make this yummy red sauce and powdery cheese pasta with green basil sprigged on top. They show you the sights and it’s so real I feel like I’m actually in the car with the man with the rusty beard. I’m driving down the avenues of tall trees, past golden fields. I’m drinking the cappuccino hot milk froth with chocolate. Like it’s me, far away from here.

And when we get to the art gallery, in Florence, I hold my breath because the paintings are amazing. There’s one that’s so huge it’s impossible to work out how you might even paint it. It has this woman standing in a big shell and all these other people swooping and swooshing around her.

The marble sculpture of someone called David is the best. Grace would’ve laughed her socks off if she were watching because David’s naked. Imagine having a huge chunk of cool white marble in front of you, all the chisels and hammers you need. Imagine chipping away until you’re covered in white dust and your hands are sore and the person inside steps out and stops waiting forever for someone to find them.

Later in bed, my duvet is tangled and I’m hot, sticky and sweaty with sleep, when I hear Amy in the kitchen. I hear the microwave ping. I hear her fork clink, clinking on the plate.

“Chang’s rubbish at getting his orders right, but this crispy duck is gorgeous, Dave,” she says. “Totally gorgeous!”

I snuggle into Blue Bunny and stroke the soft silky label on his ear, the bit where Beckett wrote his name in red biro before he left.

I hate my room. It’s so tidy because of Amy. She does this inspection thing every day, checking round the flat, making sure no germs are lurking like swamp monsters in the shadows. I wish they were. I wish armies of them would creep out of their hiding place and eat her. I wish they’d pull her down to their dark red cauldrons and mix her up to make poison. There are so many words on my lips for Amy. Bad words that would scorch your ears and make the lady in the sweet shop shoo the big boys out. But I’m not stupid enough to say them, so my tummy makes a big fist around them and holds them safe inside. When Amy’s done her inspection I close my bedroom door and mess things up again.

She’s mean to my dad too. I feel sorry for him. Last week while I was on the green drinking creamy hot chocolate with Grace and the Play Rangers I caught him staring out of the window with this pale face, looking so lost and sad.

After, I made him a coffee and we sat quietly together listening to the football results on the telly. And I loved him smiling when Arsenal won. I loved that we did a high five and I felt the warmth of his hand for the first time in ages. But then Amy came in and threw us off the sofa so she could plump up the cushions and put them neatly in pairs.

Before Amy, we only ever vacuumed the floor on special occasions. Now she makes Dad push the vacuum cleaner around every day and do all these stupid exercises at the same time. He looks stupid in the pink rubber gloves and plastic muscleman pinafore she got him for when he does the washing-up.

“Dave!” she says, inspecting the sink. “You haven’t even bleached it yet, have you? We’ll all get salmonella at this rate.”

And then she sprays the whole world with Spring Breeze air freshener that stings our eyes and chokes our throats.

When Amy’s out at Zumba class I get the chance to sit close to Dad and watch the telly and feel like it’s just him and me again. And I want to tell him everything. I want to say it all out loud, all the words twisting through me, getting tangled up inside. But I don’t know where to start. I’m too scared of making him cross or upsetting him.

“Do you like Amy, Dad?” I whisper. “Like, really like her?”

Dad sighs and stares at Top Gear. He snaps open his next can of lager and I watch the foamy bubbles fizz up through the opening and dribble down the sides.

“I mean, we don’t really need her,” I say. “Do we? I think we were much better without her. And I’m worried about money. The landlord said if you miss the rent again he’ll evict us, remember, Dad?”

Dad flicks the TV from channel to channel. He sips and sips and sips.

“Don’t you start on at me as well,” he says, without looking at me. “It might be hard for you to understand, but I don’t just like Amy, Gabriella, I love her. I’m a man possessed by a beautiful woman. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but I can’t help myself.”

His words fly at me like a football in the park, punching me with a cold hard thud in the tummy. I think I might be sick. He’s never said he loves me. He’s never said anything that nice about me, ever. I rub my face. I bend over to re-tie my laces.

Dad pats his wobbly tummy and peers at me from under his fringe. He sip, sip, sips his lager. “I reckon…” he says.

Then he stops talking. The air between us pulls tight and makes me hold my breath. Suddenly it feels just like the day he said Mum and Beckett were leaving.

“I reckon,” he says, “if I can shed a few pounds, Amy might even marry me. What d’you think of that, eh? And I promise you Amy’ll let you be a bridesmaid if you keep your room tidy and start doing the stuff she asks. The pair of you could dress up all posh and lovely. Don’t worry about the rent, Gabriella. I’ve got it all under control. You just have to learn to trust your old dad.”

He rummages in his pocket then pulls out a small square box and opens it up. “And when she sees this little baby,” he chuckles, holding a diamond ring between his fat finger and thumb so it glitters in the light, “she might not even care about my tummy!”

I fly into my room, slam the door and bite back the sour tears that are rising in my throat. I can’t let myself think about what Dad’s just said, so I pull out my box of art scraps and scatter them across the floor.

I cut and rip shiny sweet wrappers and bits of paper, making them into tiny bricks. I draw the outline of a house on a fresh clean page and glue the shiny bricks on one by one. I make little red roof tiles out of material I found at a car boot sale and a trail of grey smoke coming from the chimney out of a pair of Dad’s old pants. I colour in a bright blue front door and put loads of sunflowers in the garden like in the Italy programme. I cut a girl’s face from a magazine and stick her on the picture so she’s looking out of the window at the flowers.

I pick up my little photo of Beckett that lives on my bedside table with the special book I won in the school art competition about famous artists. I stare at his face and wish he would leap out and talk to me.

“I wish you were here, Beckett,” I whisper. “Where are you?”

In the photo he was twelve, same as I am now, which means he’ll be nineteen now. Nineteen is so old! I flick through my magazine and I find a picture of a man with brown hair just like Beckett’s. I cut him out, glue him in the garden and bend his arm so he’s waving up at me. Then I hear the door slam and Amy’s voice screeching like a parrot in a cage.

“Are you ready, Dave, or what?”

I hear Dad shuffling into the hallway.

“What?” he says. “Ready for what?”

“That’s typical,” she spits. “You men are all the same. Total let-downs!”

“Babe,” he says. “Come ’ere, darling. Wassup?”

“Wassup?” she screeches. “I’ll tell you ‘wassup’, Dave. You promised to take me out. You promised me a romantic night, you stupid fat bum. Just the two of us, without Miss Untidy Ungrateful Flappy Ears butting in, remember?”

I put my headphones on and fill my brain with tunes. I make some lovely grass with scraps of green thread on my picture and some soft white clouds from cotton wool. I stick more white pages around my picture and start filling them up too. I add a swimming pool and an outdoor cinema. I build a treehouse out of matches and make a swing from bits of string. I add a village with pavements and little stone cottages in a row. I add a dog, a shop, a hairdressers, a chippy and a Chang’s. I cut out cars and a lady on a bicycle and loads of smiley people walking down the road.

When the front door slams it’s so loud the floor shudders under me. I pull my headphones out and listen. I peep into the hall.

I don’t even care if they’ve gone. It’s better here without them.

I make myself cheese on toast, leaving the butter and the knife and the crumbs all over the worktop and I stretch out on the sofa with my shoes on, snuggling in front of the telly.

It’s mostly boring stuff until this murder thing comes on. It’s exciting at first, but then knives start flashing and the man’s big black boots send shivers down my spine. I wish Dad were here with me, and then I could watch it, no problem.

When it gets really gory and this woman’s voice is screaming I cover my face with my hands. I wish I could switch it off, but I can’t move. I can’t switch to another channel because I have to make sure that they catch the murderer in case he’s actually real, in case he’s actually lurking about outside our flats.

It’s not until I feel chilly that I look up at the clock and notice it’s half-past twelve. The murderer man is stalking around in this underground car park, hiding in the shadows. A lady is heading towards her car, but she can’t see him. I scream at her to hurry up, to run away, to lock herself in her car and call the police. She’s walking so slowly, her high-heeled shoes clip-clopping, scraping on the concrete.

“Run!” I shriek. “Run, you stupid lady, run!”

Something creaks in the hall. I freeze. My heart pounds in my ears and ripples through my skin. The murderer man’s eyes glint in the moonlight.

“Dad!” I call out. “Is that you?”

The murderer music starts howling and the lady is all shrieking voice and clip-clop running, panting, out of breath. But the murderer man is faster. His boots are slapping the ground in long strides, quickly catching her up.

“Dad!”

I flick the telly off and my ears thump as I drown in the silence.

“Dad!” I whisper. “Dad, where are you?”

I grab Blue Bunny, hold him close and stroke the silky label on his ear. Beckett gave him to me the day I was born and even though he’s a bit battered he’s still the best thing in the world. I wish Beckett were here now. He would know what to do.

I stay frozen in the chair for hours, watching the clock tick, tick, tick on the wall. Someone is stalking round the flat, I’m sure of it. They’re creaking the floorboards, shuffling into my room, humming a scary tune. I pick up one of Amy’s heavy ornaments and creep around the flat, shuffling silently behind the noise, following it from room to room. When I’m in the bathroom I hear it clinking in the kitchen. When I’m in the kitchen I hear it thudding in the hall. I walk round and round for ages, too scared to find it, too scared that I won’t. Then I think about Mum. What if it’s her? What if she’s come back and she’s hiding in the shadows, waiting for me?

My heart’s pounding so loud in my ears I run to my room and hide. It’s the only safe place left.

When I wake up the morning sun is streaming through the window, filling my room with a soft, pinky light. And for a while I can’t work out why I’m on the floor, tucked right underneath my bed, as close to the wall as I can get. Then the murderer’s face looms in my brain and Mum’s mean smile flashes shark teeth in my eyes.

“Dad!” I shout.

I know it’s stupid, because our flat’s really small and he would have heard me shouting if he were home, but I can’t help racing from room to room to check.

“Dad! Dad! Where are you?”

My heart starts thudding. I lie down on his bed, rest my face on his pillow and breathe in the greasy stink his hair has left behind. It’s not a nice smell, not anything you’d want to put in a bottle and sell, but it is my dad. Then I remember all the empty lager cans on the front room floor. I leap up and count them. I peer out of the window searching for his car, and then the hospital programme sneers in my eyes. What if he’s had a car crash and died? Seven cans of lager are too much to drink when you’re driving. What if he’s really hurt and lying in hospital somewhere? Or what if he’s run someone over and they’re dead and Dad’s at the police station? How will I know? If he goes to prison, then what about me?

I try calling, but his phone’s switched off. I try Amy’s and it’s the same. I switch on Daybreak to fill the flat with the sound of laughter. I huddle on Dad’s chair with my knees hunched up to my chest, biting a scab on my arm until it bleeds. Please come home, Dad, please! I’ll be really good forever. I’ll do all the washing-up for you. I won’t even complain about Amy any more, I’ll do everything she says, just please come home!

I open the front door and pace up and down the balcony that connects all the flats in our block together. I peer over the edge, stretching my eyes across the green where the Play Rangers go, past the cars, as far as I can see.

I go back indoors. I put the kettle on and make a cup of tea with two sugars and watch it turn cold. I pour a bowl of cereal and stir it round and round until the milk has melted it to mush. I put my uniform on and pack my school bag in a daze. Should I go to school? Should I stay home? Should I call 999 for help?

Fear is nesting inside me, curled up tight in the fist-sized pit where my ribs meet at the front. It’s sitting there with its jaggedy hair and its bright eyes, watching. I lie on Dad’s bed again and count to a thousand. I whisper to Blue Bunny that it’s all going to be OK. I go outside again and peer over the balcony.

And that’s when I can’t believe my eyes!

They’re there.

Standing in the middle of the green! Kissing!

“Dad!” I call. Tears, that I blink away, gather and twist like a hard knot of wood in my throat.

“What happened, Dad? Where were you all night?”

Amy stares up at me. “What are you then, Gabriella,” she snaps, “his keeper or what?”

She clatters up the stairwell; Dad puffing up behind her with his head drooped low.

“If you hadn’t noticed,” Amy says, “we’re grown-ups and grown-ups don’t have to ask to go out. Let alone from a twelve-year-old with manners like scum! And I hope you haven’t messed the place up, Gabriella. I hope your bed is made. It might be nice if just occasionally you appreciated me for bringing a bit of order to your life instead of nagging on about where we’ve been.”

Mrs McKlusky opens her front door and scuttles outside. “What’s the racket?” she says, twitching her eyes. “It’s not even eight o’clock. Some of us like to drink our morning cup of tea in peace! It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

Amy turns on her. “And you can shut it!” she sneers. “D’you hear me? Keep your sharp beak out of other people’s business, you nosy old bat!”

Dad sighs and bundles us indoors. “Calm down, Gabriella,” he says. “What’s all the fuss? Nobody’s died, have they?”

I glare at him.

I fold my arms across my chest and turn my back on him, anger rising like a flooding river inside me. Although I’m angry with Dad I wish he’d hold me tight like that day Mum and Beckett left. I wish he would say something nice to me. “You stayed out all night, Dad!” I shout. “Where were you?”

Dad presses his hand over his mouth, stopping his words from tumbling out.

“Where were you, Dad?” I whisper, tears escaping from my eyes. “I thought you’d had a car crash! I thought you’d died! It’s all her fault – you never did anything like this before Amy was around!”

I dig my nails into my palms and wish they were Amy’s flesh. Dad doesn’t say one word, he won’t even look at me. He just flops on the sofa and sighs. He snaps open another can of lager.

“Oh, give it a rest, Miss Doom and Gloom. We’re getting married,” Amy says in a sharp voice, flopping next to Dad and sliding into his arms. “There, I’ve said it. Your dad is no longer your property, he’s mine. It’s official and it’s going to happen whether you like it or not and for your information it’s not up to Dave who my bridesmaids are, it’s up to me. And I’m having my best mates. We’re having an adults only big flash bash on a sunny beach somewhere exotic, aren’t we, Dave? Somewhere far away from this old dump. It’s none of your business where we were last night, Miss Flappy Ears, but if you must know, we were in a very expensive, very posh hotel! Celebrating!”

Dad’s been weird since asking Amy to marry him. He’s gone quieter than ever, drifting round the flat like a wisp-thin ghost. Amy’s got louder and bossier, like one of those Salvador Dali paintings from my book, all twisted and unpredictable. She’s spending our money on things for the wedding every single day. She’s bought two dresses already so she can choose. But we’re not allowed to see. She shuts herself in Dad’s room with her friends and they coo over them like they were kittens. She’s bought special silky underwear and these pearly shoes that shimmer. She got Dad this smart grey suit with a pink silk shirt and a purple cravat and he says he feels like a turkey all trussed up for Christmas. I’m more invisible than ever. No one’s speaking to me. They wouldn’t even notice if I never came home.

Amy’s the only important one round here. She’s high up, towering above us like a queen, making up all the rules. And I’m getting so used to being invisible that I’m shocked when Mrs Evans tells me I got an A+ for my still-life art project. She says my painting stands out from the crowd and it’s going on the special display board for Parents’ Evening for everyone to see. Dad won’t see it, because he never bothers with Parents’ Evening, but I run home quick to whisper my news to Blue Bunny.

“Here,” says Amy, shoving an envelope in my hand when I get to the top of the stairs. She’s standing by our front door with her sunglasses propped up on her head. “Take it, quick. I’ve got to go.”

She squints from the sunlight and pulls her mirrored sunglasses down so I can’t see her eyes.

“And take this,” she says, dropping a bulging backpack on the ground in front of me. “We put as much of your stuff in as we could.”

“Amy,” I say. “What are you on about?”

“It’s all in the envelope,” she says. “Your dad’s written everything down. Come on, quick, give me your key to the flat.”

I stare at the white envelope, my name scrawled across the front in Dad’s loopy handwriting. I stare at the fat backpack on the ground.

“Why do you need my key?” I say. “I need it to get in. Come on, Amy, I’m desperate for a wee.” Then it dawns on me.

“Oh, no! Did someone break in again?” I ask. “Did Dad have to change the locks?”

“No, dummy,” says Amy, waggling her hand in front of my face. “Look, Gabriella, I did you a favour waiting for you; you should be grateful. I was worried someone might nick your stuff and then you’d be stranded. Anyway, we need to give your key back to the landlord. Your stupid dad forgot to pay the rent. Stupid fat bum he is!”

My tummy sinks to the ground and a red rage blazes inside me.

“I knew this would happen,” I screech. “It’s all your fault. Dad’s not stupid, he’s just kind. Mum used to trample all over him just like you do and it’s not fair. We were OK before you came along. I told him we mustn’t spend all the money. It’s gone on that stupid wedding stuff you got!”

She tuts and checks her watch.

“Gabriella,” she says, “I’ve had enough of listening to you gabble on about stuff. It’s not important. You’re not important. I tried to be a good mother to you and make your life better, but what thanks do I get, eh? Anyway, you’re not my problem any more.”

I fumble in my bag for the key, my hands fluttering like leaves.

“What are we going to do?” I say. “Where are we going to live?”

“Just be a good girl for once in your tiny life, stop asking questions and give me the key,” she sneers. “Everything’s explained in the letter. But think about it, Gabriella, your dad’s not that kind, is he? He’s known about the eviction for a few weeks now. If he was that much of a kind guy he’d have told you all about it. If he was that nice he’d have been waiting here to give you your bag. He’d have put you on the train and kissed you goodbye himself.”

Her words hit me like a car, spinning me through the air, rocking me sideways. “Wh… what…” I stammer. “What train?”

“I told you,” she says. “I haven’t got time to stand here and explain it all. You’re going on a train to your mum’s and we’re catching a plane to somewhere exotic. Yay!”

She waggles her fingers in my face again, her big fat diamond engagement ring glinting in the sun.

“I’m the lucky one!” she sings. “I always have been and always will be, you’ll see!” Then she turns and runs down the stairs, her sandals clicking and clacking on the concrete.

“And,” she shouts up at me, “don’t get yourself into trouble, Gabriella, OK?”

I lean over the edge of the balcony. “Amy!” I shout. “Where’s Dad? I don’t understand! You can’t just leave me!”

Then a smart car with a taxi sign on top screeches to a halt outside our flat. Dad’s in the back, his face turned away from me. Amy jumps in next to him. Everything’s going in slow motion like it sometimes does in films.

“Dad!” I shout, racing down the stairs, my tummy dangling off strings, twisting and turning in knots. “Dad, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t even look at me; the taxi driver flashes the indicator light and zooms away. I run after them, calling “Dad” over and over, but I can’t catch up and the car disappears round the corner and gets lost in the stream of traffic.

Back up the stairs I pull my phone out of my bag and call him. It goes straight through to answer phone without ringing and so does Amy’s. I know they won’t answer, I know they’ve gone, but I can’t stop pressing the green button over and over and over, my shaky thumbs slipping and sliding on the keys.

“What’s all the racket this time?” says Mrs McKlusky, shuffling along the balcony in her tartan slippers. She stops dead in her tracks and pins me down with her eagle eyes. “What you doing here anyway? Your dad said you was moving. I saw him heaving all your stuff out this morning. He made a right old mess of everything and then upped and left. Nonsense, it is, leaving us to clean up after him.” She clacks her teeth on her tongue. “Utter nonsense.”

My heart flaps inside me, a caged owl with frantic wings.

“I errrrm,” I say, stuffing my phone in my pocket. “I errrrm, I forgot we’d moved, that’s all, Mrs McKlusky. I’m off to meet my dad and Amy now. At our new place. Bye!”

I pick up the backpack and my school bag and quickly scoot back down the stairs. When I get out on to the road I keep my eyes on the ground. I don’t want to see anyone; I don’t want anyone to see me. I don’t want to talk. I just keep walking and walking, clutching the chalk-white envelope in my hand.

And when I’m far away from our flats, far, far away from Mrs McKlusky’s beady spy eyes, I find a bench and sit down. My hands are shaking. My shoulders are aching from the really heavy bags. I stare at the envelope. I stare at Dad’s handwriting scrawled in huge letters across the front. Gabriella.

I trace my finger over the blue biro shapes. He didn’t put a kiss. He didn’t even underline it. I pull out my phone and press the green button again and again and again. I listen over and over to his voice. “Hi, Dave here, I’m off on me hols, so don’t leave a message as I won’t be getting back to you anytime soon… Hi, Dave here, I’m off on me hols, so don’t leave a message as I won’t be getting back to you anytime soon.”

I slip my finger in the envelope and open it a tiny bit. But then panic freezes me; my heart bangs loudly and I stare at Dad’s handwriting for ages. What did Amy mean about going to Mum’s? We don’t even know where she lives, we haven’t heard from her for years. I don’t even want to see her. I don’t want to read the stupid letter. And I’m not going to Mum’s either. No one can make me. They can’t.

I fold the envelope carefully and tuck it away in my bag.

I’m starving. I forgot to take my lunch to school and I need the toilet really badly. I pull my Maths homework out and stare at it to distract myself. The fractions keep swirling on the page and turning into Amy’s words. They make my heart pound in my ears and my face and hands drip with sweat. You’re going on a train to your mum’s! You have to go to your mum’s! To your mum’s!

My eyes are prickly and blurry and I can’t even see the numbers any more because they’re swimming. I squeeze the tears away and stuff the fractions back in my bag. I get out my Geography homework and draw a huge volcano. I make loads of molten red lava gush out the top and spill down the sides. I draw loads of tiny little cars and houses, and miniature stick people running away. I make them all scream, with big howling mouths, like that painting called The Scream in my book. I draw loads of ash smoke billowing everywhere and blinding everyone and I draw a girl on a bench; alone, with all the hot lava and amber sparks whooshing towards her.

My legs are cold. I open the backpack, but it makes my tummy churn so I tug at the nylon straps and click the black buckles shut. If I don’t read the letter and I don’t look in the bag maybe it will all go away. Maybe it’s really a dream and in a minute I’ll go back home and Dad will be sighing on the sofa and Amy will be trying on her new stuff and everything’ll be like normal.

My mum keeps prowling around my brain, lurking like a sharp-toothed shark. And what’s weird is I can see everything from years ago as if it were yesterday, as if I had a TV on replay in my mind. There’s Mum pulling on one arm, screeching, and Dad pulling on the other arm, sobbing, and I’m in the middle and only five. I’m just standing there with a blank face feeling invisible. No one even notices that they’re tearing me in half like paper. And Beckett’s just standing there trembling with his arms hanging long at his sides and his face turned whiter than the moon.

I wanted to go with Beckett so badly. But I couldn’t leave Dad alone, could I? He looked so helpless and Mum made me feel so shaky and panicky inside. And then she spat in Dad’s face and dropped my hand. She grabbed hold of Beckett and pulled him away. I wanted to run after him. I wanted to fly to Beckett. I wanted to hold on so tight and never let him go. And I tried to move my legs, I did, but they wouldn’t move. They couldn’t leave Dad standing there alone, looking so sad.

After I’ve finished colouring in the volcano I start answering the questions.

1: What is the Ring of Fire?

The Ring of Fire is a volcanic chain surrounding the Pacific Ocean.

2: Where are volcanoes located?

Volcanoes are found along destructive plate boundaries, constructive plate boundaries and at hot spots in the earth’s surface.

3:What are lahars and pyroclastic flows?

I know what those big words mean, but I can’t be bothered to write the answer down. My mum’s biting huge chunks out of my brain with her shark’s teeth, blood dripping down her face. My tummy’s grumbling. I try calling Dad again, and Amy. A plane roars overhead and it makes me think about them flying off. Where are they even going?

I pack my stuff up and start walking. I don’t really think about where I’m going, but suddenly I’m standing at Grace’s front door, which is painted smooth red and has a shiny brass lion’s head knocker and letterbox. Yellow flowers nod in wooden boxes on the windowsill and tangles of white roses hang around the doorway like a big messy fringe. I stuff my nose in a creamy bloom and breathe in its perfume. It smells so beautiful. “Hi,” I say, when Grace’s mum opens the door. “Is Grace in?”

“Sorry, love,” she says, “she’s at her dad’s tonight. You’ll see her at school tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I say, hopping from one leg to another. “Sorry, I forgot.”

I stand there like a dummy with my mouth hanging wide open. “Can I quickly use your bathroom, then? I’m desperate.”

Grace’s mum smiles and opens the door wide to let me in. I dump my bags in the hallway, race up the stairs and wee until there’s not even one drop left inside me. I fold the flowery toilet paper round and round my hand and stroke its softness on my cheek. On my way back I peep into Grace’s room and I wish I could slide into her bed and hide. I wish her mum could bring me some dinner up on a tray and puff the pillows so they’re comfy. I wish she could climb in and watch a programme on Grace’s pink telly with me.

“Bye, then,” says Grace’s mum, when I’ve picked up my bags.

I stare at her, a million words racing round my mind, thundering like horses.

“Can I have a biscuit, please?” I say.

Grace’s mum laughs, then she gets the biscuit tin from the kitchen and lets me choose. “Take a couple,” she says, “but don’t go spoiling your tea.”

I take two. My hand lingers in the tin. I should pull it out, I know, but it won’t budge. My tummy’s grinding like a peppermill.

“Oh, go on,” she smiles, “take a handful, but don’t tell your dad!”

She looks at me with these soft friendly eyes. She touches her hand on mine and I wish I could grab it and cling on like the roses round the door. I wish I could say something. I wish I could tell her.

“You OK, Gabriella?” she says. “You look, um…”

“I’m fine,” I say, grabbing more biscuits. “Just starving after Games, that’s all.” I skip down the path very fast, away from her eyes and her questions. “Thanks for the biscuits, thank you, bye!”

I walk around the park for ages, nibbling the biscuits, traipsing round and round. I watch the little kids on the swings, the boys on the skate ramps, the old people playing a really boring-looking game with lots of black shiny balls. I check that Dad’s letter is still in my bag about seven hundred times. I think about Dad. I think about Mum. I think about Beckett and the stripy jumper he was wearing when he walked away in those faded jeans with the pink of his knee poking through the frayed rips.

“You all right, love?” a lady asks when I walk past the little café. “You’ve been marching about for ages. I keep on seeing you. Those bags look heavy.”

“Errrrrm,” I stutter, “yeah, I’m OK. I just feel like walking.”

“Can’t stop for a quick cupcake then?” she smiles. “I’m just about to shut up shop and I have one left, begging to be eaten.”

“Errrrrm.”

“Oh, go on,” she says. “You can have it for free. If you don’t tell, I won’t tell, so long as you don’t go spoiling your dinner. Don’t want your mum chasing after me, do I?”

She hands me the cupcake. It’s covered in pink icing with tiny red hearts.

“Thanks.”

I take the cupcake and carry on walking. I lick the icing. I nibble the hearts. I sit on a bench and let the warm sun kiss me.

Maybe Mum’s changed and things’ll be different. Maybe if I do go there everything’ll be OK. I probably won’t even recognise Beckett and he definitely won’t recognise me.

My tummy twists, that knotty nest of fear unravelling and turning to snakes. But what if she hasn’t changed? What if she blames me for everything that happened? What if she goes mad at me again? No one can make me go. There isn’t even anyone to make me. I could disappear forever and no one would ever know.

I pull the letter out again and stare at it. I trace my finger over the shapes and my heart thunders. Gabriella.

Gabriella Midwinter. Beckett Midwinter. Dave & Sally Midwinter. Midwinter. Midwinter. Midwinter. Families are so silly.

I wiggle my finger under the flap and loosen the seal. I slide it all the way along until the envelope opens like a big white mouth and then I take a deep breath and pull the letter out. I try to hold it still enough to read, but my arms are juddering, and the paper is fluttering like a moth in my hands.

“Still here?” says the café lady, walking past.

I nod and stuff the letter in my pocket. “Thanks for the cake, it was lovely.”

“You sure you’re OK, sweetheart?” she asks, coming closer. “Nothing wrong is there?”

I shake my head.

“I’m meeting my dad here,” I lie. “We’re having a picnic before Parents’ Evening. We’re celebrating because my artwork is on display.”

“Awww, that’s lovely,” she smiles. “Have a nice time. And good luck with Parents’ Evening!”

I wish I was having a picnic with Dad. Instead, I find some nature stuff on the ground and make my own little tea party. I use buttercups for cups, a flat piece of wood for a table and a smooth round stone for a teapot. I bend little twigs to make a family, sit them all around and make tiny cakes and buns out of berries, and miniature green sandwiches from leaves.

There. Everyone’s smiling. Everyone’s happy and having fun. A pain swells up in my chest. I swallow it down and pick up my bags. I leave my twig family behind and hope a little girl finds them and has a play before the wind blows and scatters them across the grass.

I leave the park and walk up and down the streets, wondering what it would’ve been like if Dad actually was going to Parents’ Evening to see my artwork and take photos of it on his phone.

Then I remember having a picnic with Grace and her mum. We hired a canoe, paddled up the canal and then stopped when we were far away from everyone. It was all green shade and magical rays of sunlight bursting through. I couldn’t believe it was real; it was like the paintings. We had egg sandwiches and crisps and chocolate cake and real orange juice with bits in, not squash. Grace’s mum bought us white chocolate Magnum ice creams and we sat on the edge of the canal for hours, watching the boats float by and the moorhens nesting. We took off our sandals and dangled our feet in the freezing water and laughed.

Dad’s letter is bashing about in my pocket, demanding attention. I walk and walk until the straps on the backpack start digging in again and my legs are achy and tired. And when I can’t walk any more I find a bench, hunt in my school bag for my bottle and glug some water down. I find a warm, brave place in my heart, swallow down the big hard lump in my throat and pull the letter out. I stare at it, tracing my finger over the blue biro shapes looping across the page.

Dear Gabriella,

I know I should have told you, but I didn’t know how. Amy and me are making a fresh start together and it’s time for you to go and live with your mum. Amy thinks it’ll be good for you to see her and Beckett. Here’s some money for the train and for food while you’re travelling. You’re a big girl now. I know you’ll be OK.

Mum’s address is: 4, Macklow Street, Manchester. You’ll be a nice little surprise!

Dad

I swallow hard. I pick the little scab on my arm. I trace my finger over the words again and again and again. I sit there for a lifetime, my heart thudding in my chest, waiting for the sun to go down, watching the wind lift litter from the path.

“Can I have a ticket to Manchester?” I say, to the man at the railway station.

He peers at me through the glass. “Single or return?”

“Single.”

He taps away at the computer screen. He squints his eyes to read. “Sorry, Miss,” he says, “last train’s already gone. You’ll have to wait till morning.”

I stare at him. “There must be something?”

He shakes his head and peers through the glass again. “Bit young to be travelling alone this time of night, aren’t you?”

“Everyone says that. I’m just small for my age.” And I’m not sure why, but suddenly I’m lying again.

The man nods and turns back to his computer. I wander away and press the green button on my phone and listen to Dad’s voice seventeen times. I walk and walk and walk, until the town is hushed, until the sky grows dark, until there’s no one else around except me walking and walking under a bright, bright moon.

Without noticing where I’m going I find myself standing in the shadows near Grace’s house, like a thick elastic band has pulled me back here. I should knock on the door and tell her mum what’s going on. But I’m scared she’ll phone the police and get my dad in trouble for leaving me alone.

I slip down the alleyway between the houses, stumbling in the dark, counting the back gates until I find Grace’s, number 58. I lean my arm over and slide the bolt open as quietly as I can. I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I think I might be sick.

I tiptoe through the garden towards the shed, feeling like a thief, avoiding the pond, careful not to clatter the swing. Grace’s garden is washed with silvery moonlight and a soft golden glow spills from the house like honey, spreading across the lawn. It’s quiet and still, except for the silhouetted leaves fluttering in the breeze and my heart hammering fast in my throat.

“Here, Kitty, Kitty,” Grace’s mum calls from the kitchen door, bashing a tin can with a spoon.

I freeze. I press myself against the shed door. Kitty leaps off the shed roof, on to the fence, and down to the ground with a pitter-patter thud.

“Come on, Kitty Kat,” her mum calls again.

Kitty winds her soft furry body around my ankles. She nuzzles up close and purrs.

“Kitty Kat, come on.”

I try pushing her gently away, towards the house, but she won’t go, she just keeps on twirling around me.

“Suit yourself,” says Grace’s mum at last. “Out on the town are you, Kitty? Chasing mice?”

She puts the cat bowl down and then she stands and tips her head right back to gaze up at the stars. I have to stop myself from flying into her arms and telling her everything, from clinging on to her forever. I wish she’d stand there all night, with the halo glow of the kitchen light around her. I wish she’d walk into the darkness and find me and take charge.

Grace’s mum shuts the door and turns the key. She snaps off the light, plunging the garden into dark silvery shadows of moonshine. I stoop down and pick Kitty up. I nuzzle my face in her fur.

“Go get your dinner, Kitty,” I whisper, putting her back on the ground. “Go on, you’ll be hungry.” But she won’t go and I just stand there, waiting.

When the clouds first roll in, soft glittery rain tumbles from the sky, but then the drops get bigger and wetter. I shelter under a tree and wait with my fringe dripping on to my cheeks, until all the upstairs lights go off. And when the house is totally quiet, I creak the shed door open and creep inside.

Kitty leaps on to the workbench sending tins of paint and bottles of stuff flying. I freeze. I hold my breath. I tremble. I wait for Grace’s mum to come shouting into the garden in a panic to see what all the noise is about. I wish she would. I cross my fingers and toes and hope she won’t.

The shed window is so grubby and full of cobwebs the moonlight can’t get in. I drag my bags into the dry and shut the door. I run my hands over cold things, a lawnmower, garden tools, a metal bucket. I bash my knee pulling a sun lounger from the pile and I struggle to put it up.

I think about Blue Bunny and wonder if he’s in my bag. I’ve never been to sleep without him before. I swallow hard, settle myself down and dig around in the backpack looking for his soft silky ears. I feel a hairbrush, a toothbrush, some scissors and scraps, a book and some clothes.

I dig deeper and deeper, then freeze when the low rumbling thunder rolls over me and bright white lightning cracks open the sky. I hold myself tightly as the storm rain lashes the window and drips through a crack.

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