INTRODUCING OUR GUEST AUTHOR, LUCY BRIGHTON, WHO IS SHARING A COUPLE OF CHAPTERS FROM HER BOOK, 'FINDING HOME'

Chapter One

Abbie

My mum isn’t dead.

For seven years, Dad told me my mother ran away without a trace. I was convinced she was dead when he stopped searching, but now I hold the truth in my trembling hands: a tatty brown folder tucked away under bills and bank statements. She’s alive and he knew.

As I curl the cover of the folder, her photograph takes my breath and the whole room fills with the smell of

strawberries and the sound of scratchy records. Her eyes are the shifting colour of the ocean, her skin freckled, like mine. So much of her like me, but not. She has a confidence in the jut of her chin I don’t remember. Gently, I press my finger against her face. “Mum.” The word sounds foreign in my mouth.

Behind the picture are seven unopened envelopes addressed to me. The loopy print on the front belongs to her, I’m certain. I turn over the first envelope and see the postmark matches my birthday week. He said there had been no contact. No cards. Nothing.

If that guy from the electricity board hadn’t come asking for a meter key, I’d never have found out the truth.

“Abbie!” Dad shouts. His voice carries and never loses momentum.

I flick through the remaining pages in the file, committing her address to memory before shoving it back in the drawer.

“Coming!” I shout back, knowing better than to keep him waiting.

I take the stairs two at a time.

“What you been doing all day?”

I lower my gaze. “College.”

He drops his work bag where he stands and goes to sit on the sofa. It dips at one end where he’s imprinted himself into it.

“Get me a drink.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

I shuffle into the kitchen, my fingers twitching as I turn on the kettle. She isn’t dead. She’s alive, and he

knows where she is. I mull over this revelation. There’s no way I can stay here with him, not now.

“Here, Dad.” I pass him the drink, swallowing the urge to throw the boiling liquid over him, watch him twist and shriek as his skin sears. He doesn’t acknowledge me, his attention already consumed by some shit on the TV.

“I need to ask you something,” I say, perching on the arm of the chair, my hands locked tightly together. One false step is all it would take to set him off.

“What?” he asks, eyes fixed on the oversized plasma screen.

“It’s about Mum.”

He freezes and then carefully places his cup on the stained coffee table before turning to face me. “Abbie, she left us. Not a word. Not a pound in maintenance. Not even a phone call for your 18th. What more do you need to know?”

“So, you have no idea where she went?”

“Straight to hell I expect,” he says, turning up the volume with the remote, the conversation over.

“I’ll put tea on then,” I mutter. “Nuggets and chips okay?”

A grunt. I put the frozen lumps of beige in the oven before heading to my room. My thoughts are too big for my brain to hold.

The room is still the same pink it’s been since I can remember. A ‘princess palace’ Dad used to say. Maybe it had been. Once.

I picture the birthday card I’d found with 13 emblazoned on the front. Inside it read: Abigail, a teenager now! Wow! I will find a way to see you soon. Promise. Love always, Mum.

I pull out my phone and use the maps app to check how far away Cedarthorpe is: 77.9 miles. That doesn’t

sound so far. A few hours by bus and I could be with my mum before he even realises I’m gone.

I lose myself Googling the place that she left us for. Bridgewater Place, Cedarthorpe. It’s a seaside town, but one for fishing rather than doughnuts and arcades. Some pictures capture the beach on a sunny day and it looks almost welcoming, but most of them are of dockyards, fishing trawlers and rubbish.

I don’t hear his footsteps until it’s too late, and he’s almost at the top of the stairs.

“Didn’t you hear me shouting?” he asks, filling the doorway.

“No, sorry,” I say, moving towards the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing on that?”

I pray he won’t see what’s on my screen. “I… I…”

“How many times have I told you those things will rot your tiny brain?”

He hovers in the doorway. “Tea’s ready,” he says and leaves.

As soon as I reach the middle of the stairs, the air is thick with smoke. No, no, no. I hurry to the kitchen, coughing. Dad says nothing, just watches me. With one hand, I pull out the oven tray and switch off the cooker with the other.

“Sorry, Dad, I’ll make some more,” I say, scraping the food into the bin.

“No, it’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“We can’t eat that!”

“Course we can.”

I don’t move.

“Go on, Abs. Get it back out.” His voice is low and calm.

I retrieve a charred nugget with the remnants of Weetabix from breakfast stuck to it. My stomach hardens

as I place the nugget on a plate, then grab a handful of blackened chips.

“That’s it,” Dad says. “Eat up.”

There’s sick in the back of my throat. “I can’t.”

“I don’t go to work so you can throw food in the bin. Eat.”

I pick up one chip and put it in my mouth. Chewing it turns it to soot so I fill a glass of water to wash it down, hoping that will be the end of it.

His stare tells me it isn’t.

I chew and swallow the nugget as quickly as I can. It’s coming back up. Covering my mouth with my hand to keep it in, I run upstairs.

My eyes stream and the nugget comes up almost whole. This is gross and my throat is burning. Sticking

my head under the tap, I rinse my mouth three times, then swallow some water.

When I come out of the bathroom, he’s there, waiting, his face red.

“You never listen, do you? I don’t pay for food for you to waste it! You think your ‘college’ ideas make you

better than me? Is that what you think?” Spittle lands on my cheek and I’m worried I’ll throw up again.

He pulls the belt free from his trousers with his left hand and it hangs like a whip.

Chapter Two

Abbie

The next morning, I watch him leave from my bedroom window. Even the dealers who hang around at the corner of the street haven’t surfaced yet. The houses towering either side of Dad slouch in the shadows, covered with a layer of dirt. From here he looks so small, like I could squash him with my finger.

He walks with the confidence of a man half his age, his shoulders pulled back and his stride long and steady. I watch a bit longer until he’s swallowed by the mist. I was hoping for an away game so I’d have more time, but it is what it is. Pulling off my dressing gown, I’m already fully clothed underneath. I need to find his stash and get the fuck out of here.

The living room holds a few of his favourite hiding places. I start with the obvious, under his sofa cushion. Nothing. Can’t run away with fag ends for currency. I stop myself from cleaning them up. The tobacco tin could be a good place. Nope. Just strands of Golden Virginia like spider legs.

Think like him.

I sit in his spot and look around. The walls, once cream, are now more yellow and I spot a cluster of webs in the corner. The coffee table looks about a hundred years old even though I can remember them getting it, its surface marred by water rings and scuffs, the varnish worn thin in places. Under the coffee table is a stack of books, although I never see him read. I shuffle them out from under the table. They’re just books. Jeez, what was I expecting? Secret compartments and hidden walls?

This isn’t working. I tear around the room and look in every cushion cover, every nook and cranny. No money. I know he’ll have it in the house. He doesn’t believe in banks, thinks they’ll rob him. It’s got to be his bedroom. Urgh that’s the last place I wanted to go.

Once upstairs, I step into the dimly lit room, the air heavy with the musty scent of neglect. It’s only been twenty minutes, so I should have plenty of time before he’s back. He does a warm-up with the kids before they kick off. Couple of hours at least.

The room is a pigsty. There are dirty socks and pants like a second carpet on the floor and it smells of sweat and Lynx Africa.

‘Swallow your frogs’, that’s what some old schoolteacher used to say. Do the worst thing first, so I dive into the underwear drawer. Thank God they’re clean. Rooting through the fabric, my fingers skim something hard at the bottom. My heart rate quickens. I pull the box out and it’s cool to the touch. This must be it, where he keeps his cash stash.

I prise open the lid and let out a gasp. It’s not a ball of twenties in the box. There, nestled like an egg in a nest, is a small, well-worn handgun.

*****

There’s a rattle at the door.

Fuck! The gun is cold and heavy. Why the hell does he have a gun? If he catches me in here… with this… Maybe I misheard. I strain for any sound above the frantic beating of my heart. A second of silence. I finger the trigger; I’ve no idea how you check if a gun is loaded. A memory of Dad brandishing the belt is replaced with him wielding this, and I feel sick.

Another noise from downstairs.

I push the gun back into the box and cover it with the faded Y-fronts. I want to be as far away from it and him as soon as possible!

“Dad,” I shout down the stairs, a quiver in my voice. Why would he be home now? It’s too early?

The door rattles again. Think Abbie, think. Down the stairs two at a time. The carpet shifts below me and I cling to the banister, my heart racing.

The door is closed and no sign of Dad, just a card pushed through the letterbox. When I open the door, there’s a box on the step. It takes a minute for my breathing to return to normal. That was close.

I look at the old Micky Mouse watch hanging loose on my wrist. Still well over an hour to find the money. I wouldn’t put it past the old bastard to have stashed it somewhere I’d never find. He wouldn’t take it on his bus route, that’s for sure. Does he have a locker at the depot? Na. It’s got to be here somewhere.

I grab the parcel and plod into the kitchen. What’s he been ordering now? I prise open the flap of the box: new football kits. Of course it is. I wish I had the ‘coach dad’ instead of the monster that lives here.

I have no job, no money of my own and the only way I’m going to find Mum is if I can find that money. Maybe it’s right here, in the kitchen – ‘woman’s domain’, according to him.

I pull the cupboard doors open one by one and empty the contents onto the greasy counter. An old hand-painted cup stops me in my tracks. 'To the best Daddy' is slapped on with my six-year-old hand. My breath catches in my throat.

My hand twitches. I should chuck it. Watch it smash into a thousand pieces in the bin. But I don’t; I carefully get it down from the top shelf. And there, rolled up and held fast with an elastic band, is the money. My chest flutters with a pang of guilt, but I push it away and stuff the roll into my jeans pocket.

Time to go.

In my room, I fling some clothes into my backpack and take a last look around the only bedroom I’ve ever known. It’s a time capsule, stuck fast seven years ago. When Mum left, everything changed, but not in here. The Polly Pocket wardrobe stands pride of place on my shelf, surrounded by tiny dolls. So many hours spent creating imaginary lives for each of them. They are as real to me as any flesh and blood person. For a minute, I consider taking them. You’re an adult, get a grip.

“Bye,” I whisper into the room, hitching the rucksack up onto my shoulders. Pumped with adrenaline, I run down the stairs and fling open the door.

“Where are you going?”

Dad’s shape blocks the doorway...

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COMING SOON: On Friday 20th June, our team member, Dawn Treacher, is sharing chapter one of her children's novel, 'Pandemonium of Parrots'.