LITMIR.BIZ

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a couple of the days, Jake is quieter than usual and doesn’t want to talk, wincing occasionally but not saying why, so I bring my sketchpad with me. I draw for hours on end in the wooden Wendy house that’s usually for the smaller kids. It’s empty save for us, because of the wintry chill.

      Wearing fingerless gloves so I can draw, I share my sandwich and thermos of hot chocolate with him as he watches my left hand fly over the pages. He doesn’t seem to mind the silence when I draw, just appearing relieved to be out of his house. Every afternoon when it gets closer to home time, a strange tension comes over him. His shoulders creep up, his face gets hard and he becomes even quieter. By Thursday, I feel like I know him enough to be concerned.

      ‘Is everything all right at home?’ I ask hesitantly, leaning towards him.

      ‘Everything’s fine,’ he snaps, looking away.

      He doesn’t talk to me for the next hour, so I don’t ask him about it again.

      Even though we’ve worked out he’s nearly two years older than me, he never makes me feel stupid or childish. He asks questions about my drawings and where I get my ideas from and why I enjoy it so much, and says my art is really good. I tell him stuff about Mum leaving as I twirl my bracelet around my wrist, and sometimes when we talk, Jake puts his finger out and flicks the heart charm so it swings like a pendulum. On the morning I’m leaving, I go into a panic when we’re at the park, thinking I’ve lost it, frantically checking my wrist and pockets and looking around on the ground but not able to find it. Jake calms me down and puts his hands up inside my coat sleeve, slowly easing the bracelet into sight from where it got caught on the inside of the sleeve elastic. Beaming at him, I go to hug him a thank you, but he backs away. Awkwardly, I let my hands drop to my sides.

      When it’s time for me and Dad to leave, I’m sad to say goodbye to Jake, and realise I’ll miss him. He’s been so easy to talk to, and the thought of leaving him behind fills me with sadness.

      ‘This week’s been nice,’ I say, as we stand facing each other next to Dad’s loaded van. There’s a lump in my throat. I’m leaving everything I know behind and going into the unknown. ‘Thanks.’

      Jake nods his head, putting his hands in his coat pockets. His odd-coloured eyes – one green, one brown – are solemn and the scar cutting into his lip looks paler today, especially against the starkness of his messy, thick black hair.

      I’m about to gather my courage to ask if we should maybe stay in touch when Jake steps back, and Dad opens the van door behind me. We’ve already said our goodbyes to Grandad Ray inside the house, and he said it’s better he doesn’t come out. I know he finds it hard to show his feelings.

      ‘Come on, love,’ Dad chides, ‘we need to get on the road. We’ve got a couple of hours ahead of us and unpacking to do at the other end.’

      ‘Okay, sorry,’ I murmur, my gaze still on Jake’s face. I wait for him to say something but he’s in one of his quieter moods again. ‘Okay, bye then,’ I mumble.

      ‘Bye,’ he replies, as he steps back.

      Turning away, I climb up into the van. Buckling my seatbelt, I wind the window down and glance at him, checking one more time that he’s not going to say anything, but his mouth is in a straight line. His eyes are blank. It’s like I’ve already left.

      As Dad starts the engine and releases the handbrake, I raise my hand to wave at Jake, and he suddenly darts forward and slams his hand on the door. In turn, Dad slams the brakes on.

      ‘What?’ I hold my breath.

      ‘I’ve still got your book!’ he says anxiously.

      I smile, ‘You’re enjoying it. Finish it and then give it to Grandad Ray. I’ll get it from him next time I’m back.’ I nod. ‘Maybe I’ll see you then?’ I say in a rush, holding my breath.

      ‘You really want to?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’d like that.’ The blankness from his eyes fades a bit. ‘You sure about the book?’

      Dad revs the engine.

      I roll my eyes. ‘Yes. Keep the book. Bye, Jake, and take care.’

      I don’t know it in that moment, but they’ll be my last words to him for two and a half years.

       Jake

       31 August 2003

       The Pencil Charm

      Jake’s sitting on the pitched red roof outside his bedroom window for the fourth day in a row. It’s steep and his mum doesn’t like him being out here, particularly when it’s hot. The beating sun does sometimes make him feel dizzy, but it’s the best place to stay out of his dad’s way. Terry’s less fit than he used to be, so can’t get out here anymore.

      Anyway, he’s been out here hundreds of times over the last year and has perfected the art of climbing in and out of the window without even a wobble, just like Joey in Dawson’s Creek. Besides, his dad is out of work after punching someone down at the yard and being fired, so he’s at home a lot more. His jobs never last long, and their spare room is full of DVDs, CDs, electrical goods, and gym equipment he sells down the market or on eBay. He’s always wheeling and dealing, and Jake’s mum joked last month he’s like that TV character Del Boy from Only Fools and Horses. The comment earned her a black eye, because Jake’s dad prides himself on his good looks and took offence at being compared to the actor who plays Del Boy.

      Jake’s own ribs are still healing from a few weeks ago when Terry came home drunk from the pub and accused Jake of not being his son. He was yelling and screaming that Jake was an impostor, and his mum must have cheated.

      He doesn’t remember the actual punches, or what it felt like to be curled up on the kitchen floor with his dad standing over him. He only knows that once it was over, his whole body ached, a mass of sore parts and bruises. In the bathroom afterwards – the only room in the house with a lock on the door, because his dad likes privacy to shower – he spat blood into the sink and held his side. It was hard to breathe, a sharp pain stabbing at him every time he inhaled. But he’s used to it now, and broken ribs heal with time.

      His mum stayed in bed for two days, but he had to get up for school to see out the end of term. He didn’t mind, because it was a relief to be away from home. Even though he doesn’t get on with many of the kids in his classes, he stays on for as many extracurricular activities as possible, to extend the school day. He knows parents are supposed to love and protect their kids, but that’s not his experience. Maybe his mum used to try and stand in his dad’s way when he was little to stop him being hit, but he’s not sure if that’s a real memory or just wishful thinking. Nowadays, she seems to have simply accepted their life as it is. She has never done anything to change it, never taken action that he knows of to rescue them. There’ve been no hastily packed bags, hidden tins of cash, or bus journeys to refuge shelters. Jake and his mum are like two strangers locked in a prison together, passing the time and trying to avoid eye contact. He doesn’t expect anything from her. He’s simply waiting until he’s big and strong enough to stop his dad. Surely if Terry sees he can stand up for himself, and for his mum, he won’t bother them. He’ll find someone else to take his anger out on. Jake just needs to survive until then. A couple of years ago, he’d hoped that becoming a teenager would mean the arrival of muscles. It hadn’t, but he still has hope that he might shoot up at some point. It’s hard to get strong and grow when some days he doesn’t eat though.

      He sighs, wishing he were anywhere but here. There are birds singing in the leafy trees nearby, and in the distance he can hear the buzz of a lawnmower, so he pictures a patch of bright green grass in his head. It helps pass the time. Grey smoke floats up from the garden a few houses over,

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