1

Trouble at home

I put my head under the pillow to block out the noise of Dad stumbling upstairs to the bathroom. Then he was retching, and Mum was shouting at him. Sleep was impossible.

‘Peter Burkett! Look at the state of you! I’m fed up with you coming home drunk!’ Mum shouted.

There was an indistinct, angry mumble from Dad.

‘If you think you can sleep with me, smelling like a brewery and full of vomit, you’re mistaken. You can sleep in the spare room – again. And throw those stinking clothes in the wash basket. You’ll have to wear something clean tomorrow – if you’re fit to drive the taxi, which I doubt.’

I crept out of bed and tiptoed to the door, opening it a crack to peep out.

Dad looked angry and dishevelled; there was some vomit down his shirt, his fair hair was straggly and his flies were undone. I could smell that horrible, sour vomit-smell.

He raised his arm, and it looked as if he might punch Mum, who put up her arms to protect her face. That’s when I flew at him, grabbing him by the knees. He was so unsteady that he overbalanced; and with arms flailing he landed backwards against the wall, slid down it and ended up in a heap on the floor.

‘Danny, you should be asleep. Get back to bed.’ Mum was cross with me now.

‘I was afraid Dad would hit you, Mum. Anyway, I can’t sleep with all this noise going on.’ I felt emboldened. ‘I was protecting you, Mum.’ Which was true. My reaction had been instinctive. The slumped heap that was Dad grunted.

Things had been getting worse and worse at home recently because of Dad’s drinking. He was hardly ever home at teatime, and I often heard him coming in late after my sister, Grace, and I had gone to bed and were supposed to be asleep.

Grace could sleep through a thunderstorm, but I often woke up when he came back, and heard him crashing about and shouting at Mum. Sometimes Mum shouted back, calling him names that I would get in trouble for if I used them. I usually tried unsuccessfully to blot out the sound of all the arguing, but tonight I had reached breaking point. I felt pleased that I had managed to tumble Dad, even though he was about three times my size. But the drink had made him hopeless and useless. Even more hopeless and useless than usual, I thought. And I had been afraid that he would hit Mum – even though I didn’t think he ever had… up to now.

Mum was tired and upset, and in no mood to argue.

‘Back to bed, Daniel. There’s nothing you can do except make things worse. You and Grace have got school tomorrow, I’ve got to get to the hospital for work and your father should be driving his taxi in the morning – if he’s fit for it.’

‘Yessh… You jush get to bed, Daniel.’ Dad’s speech was slurred, and he looked so messy and dejected that I was almost sorry for him. But I was more disgusted than sorry. I was beginning to hate my dad.

‘Bed, Daniel!’ Mum stalked off into her room and slammed the door.

The next morning was windy, wet and cold. Typical November weather.

Before we went in for assembly I grumbled to my friend Jimmy. ‘My dad came home drunk again last night, and I thought he was going to hit our mum. But I managed to stop him,’ I boasted, quite pleased with myself. ‘He was plastered and just slid to the floor when I grabbed him by his knees.’

Jimmy looked at me, his thoughtful grey eyes serious. ‘I’m not sure attacking your dad when he’s drunk is a good idea, Danny.’ Jimmy is sensible and tries to keep me out of trouble.

‘Anyway, it worked – this time.’

‘But don’t make a habit of it. He might thump you one back and hurt you badly.’

‘I’ve never known Dad to hit any of us, but last night I really thought he was going to hit Mum. And I got angry… I wish he didn’t drink. He might play footie with me, like your dad does, if he didn’t go to the pub every night and drink until he can hardly stand up. He might even buy me a bike like yours if he didn’t spend all his money on drink. That’s what Mum says, anyway.’

Jimmy had a beautiful bike which his mum and dad gave him for his eighth birthday last year, and had already passed Bikeability Level 2 so he was allowed to ride to school. He let me ride it sometimes, and I was nearly as good at cycling as he was. But I longed for a bike of my own more than anything in the world.

‘Maybe things’ll get better, and your dad will buy you a bike one day.’ Typical of Jimmy, trying to cheer me up.

‘Hmm,’ was all I said. It didn’t seem likely right now.

Then the bell rang, and we had to go into our class. I raced Jimmy to the school entrance, and as usual I won, even though his legs are four centimetres longer than mine. (We measured them a few weeks ago. And he is six months older than me. He was nine a few weeks ago, but I wouldn’t be nine until the summer – 12 July to be exact.) My gran tells me that most Jamaicans are good runners. ‘Think of Usain Bolt,’ she once said. Jimmy is ‘true blue British’, as he puts it, but I am half Jamaican, because Gran’s family are from Jamaica. Gran is Mum’s mother, so she is black; but Dad is white British, with fair hair and blue eyes. Grace and I both have brown eyes and black curly hair like Mum and Gran. (‘Brown eyes are usually dominant over blue eyes,’ Mum told me once. ‘It’s something to do with genetics.’)

Despite being so different, Jimmy and I are best friends – at least we were, before the awful things that happened – and we sat next to each other in the next lesson, as usual.

2

Bad news

On Friday morning the chair next to mine – Jimmy’s chair – was empty. I was surprised because Jimmy is hardly ever late.

Miss Watson usually smiles at us as we come in, but this morning her face was stern and sombre as she said, ‘Come in quickly and quietly, children, and sit down. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.’

We sat still, wondering what had happened.

‘Jimmy’s mother has just called to say that he has been in a bad accident. He was knocked off his bike on his way to school this morning,’ Miss Watson said, dashing my hopes that the empty chair did not mean something bad had happened. ‘He has been badly injured and is now in hospital. The driver who knocked him down has been held by the police, who are looking into the accident. Jimmy’s mum is very upset, of course. She says the doctors think that he will recover, but he may be in hospital for some time.’

We were stunned into silence for a moment; but then people started putting up their hands. and asking questions.

‘How bad is it, Miss?’

‘Who dunnit, Miss?’

‘I hope the police get that driver!’

‘When will he be back in school, Miss?’

‘It’s no use asking me questions, because I have told you all I know.’ Miss Watson was in a no-nonsense mood, and we soon sank into shocked silence again. ‘As a church school we believe that our God loves and cares for us, so let us spend a few minutes silently praying for Jimmy’s recovery.’

There was a hushed silence for several minutes, then Miss Watson said, ‘This afternoon I will give you time to draw a get-wellcard for him if you want to, and I hope you will continue to pray that he will get better soon. But now, please get on with your lessons as usual.’

At break-time that day, everybody was talking about Jimmy.

‘What an idiot driver.’

‘I hope the police catch him.’

‘That driver will probably get sent to prison.’

But I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and said nothing.

In art that afternoon I drew a picture of someone who I hoped looked like Jimmy, lying on a hospital bed with a drip going into one arm, and the other arm and one leg bandaged. I also put a bandage round his head, so he looked a real invalid.

I wrote in it:

GET WELL SOON,

YOUR BEST FRIEND, DANNY

I wondered whether to put some kisses on the card but decided that was not a cool thing to do in Year Four.

On my way back from school my heart missed a beat when I saw the headlines on the daily paper outside a newsagents’:

Drunk taxi driver seriously injures nine-year-old child

I had just enough money to buy the paper, and I read the article with horror:

A thirty-five-year-old white British male was arrested in Bootle just before nine o’clock this morning for knocking a nine-year-old child off his bicycle.

The driver was taken into custody and Merseyside Police have confirmed that he is a local taxi driver. He is suspected of dangerous driving, causing serious injury while unfit through drink or drugs, and failing to stop at the scene of the accident.

The young boy, who cannot be named, was cycling to school and is now in a critical but stable condition in hospital.

Eyewitnesses say that the child was waiting in the cycle lane for the lights to change when the taxi drove past him at speed, knocking him off his bicycle and driving over his right leg, crushing it badly.

A family member has revealed that the boy is now in intensive care and that he could lose his leg.

I read the article slowly. Then I read it twice more, my heart sinking lower each time, as with a terrible certainty I knew that the unnamed child was Jimmy. And what if the drunk taxi driver was Dad?

He was a thirty-five-year-old white British male and was seriously drunk again last night.

My stomach twisted into a hard knot at the horrible thought.