I hear the sound of something smashing downstairs followed by the noise of glass being scraped from the floor. I climb outta bed and pull on a pair of jogging bottoms. On the landing, I pass Phoebe’s room, her name painted in all these bright colours on the door. Al had done it for her and painted inside her room as well, stencilling birds and rabbits and characters from her favourite books on the walls. I pass Saul’s room, his door frame splintered and cracked from the time he’d got angry and punched it in. He did it after our dad left and said that if he didn’t punch the door frame then he’d end up punching someone’s face. I try not to look up towards the other set of stairs, the ones that lead up to the top of the house . . . to Al’s room.
I head into the kitchen and find Mum picking up bits of a broken wine bottle from the floor and dumping them in the bin. She didn’t really drink till Dad left – it wasn’t like she suddenly turned into one of those proper alkies that you see hanging round outside the bookie’s, but we’d all noticed. Now, with Al, it’s got even worse. The metal lid of the kitchen bin slams shut and she jumps when she sees me.
‘Christ’s sake, Nathan,’ she says. ‘D’you have to go sneaking up on me like that? Almost gave me a bloody heart attack.’
‘Soz,’ I say. ‘I weren’t sneaking up on you, tho.’
‘Well, what else were you doing, lurking round there? I didn’t even hear you come in.’
She puts the plastic dustpan and brush down on the floor, and I stare at her finger. A drop of blood is trickling down it.
‘Mum,’ I say. ‘You’re bleeding.’
She stares at me, like I’ve just spoken in a foreign language – maybe nothing will ever hurt as much as losing Al. But then she looks at her hand and walks over to the sink. I watch as she turns the tap on, the water thundering down into the steel bowl. She stands with her back to me, probably for longer than she needs to.
‘Where’s Saul?’ I ask.
‘He’s at work,’ she says. ‘He took Phoebe to school this morning. I wanted to stay here, just in case we heard anything from the coroner.’
She turns the tap off and walks over to the other side of the kitchen, ripping off a piece of kitchen roll and wrapping it round her finger. I watch as the blood seeps through.
‘I don’t know what’s taking them so long. They said they’d be releasing his body any time now. It’s not enough that we have to have this stupid inquest! That they’ve been looking at my bank statements, asking about his home life, your dad walking out. Things that don’t concern them. My son is dead and I have to wait to bury him! I have to wait to say goodbye properly.’ She wipes her eyes and sits down at the kitchen table.
The first I’d even heard about this inquest stuff was after the police came round. They said that we could bury Al after the autopsy, but there would be this public court case where they had to present the ‘facts about his suicide’. They’d already asked me some questions cause I was the one who found him, but they said that they’d probably be back with more. That I’d have to go to court to give evidence, but Mum had to agree that I could. I didn’t wanna go cause then I’d have to lie about the phone call. And wot if Mum found out? But also Al’s death wasn’t some public thing. It was private.
It was me, and Mum, and Phoebe, and Saul.
Mum looks at me. ‘I know it’s hard,’ she says. ‘But have you thought about going back to school? The routine . . . something else to focus on might help.’ She pauses. ‘And you’ve got your GCSEs coming up. Mr Ballan told me that the school will do everything they can to help with—’
I ignore her and walk over to the fridge.
‘Nathan?’ she says.
‘What’s the point?’ I say, opening the door and taking out a carton of orange juice. ‘Might not go back at all. It ain’t like going to school is gonna fix anything.’
I push back the plastic tab and take a gulp. I can feel her watching me, but she doesn’t tell me to get a glass or have a go at me for drinking out the carton like she usually does. I put the empty carton back in the fridge and I feel my mum tense.
‘Why do you always have to do that?’ She gets up from the table and storms over to me, pulling the carton out. ‘It’s empty!’ She shoves it inside the metal bin. ‘Is it so difficult to throw something away once you’ve finished with it? And there is a point, Nathan. You can’t let what’s happened to Al . . . to us . . . stop you from doing well. From passing your exams.’
I wanna laugh. She’s never been bothered before about me and school, not properly anyway. There’s no chance I’m gonna pass anything, but she didn’t care then cause she had Al. She had one son who’d made her proud.
‘You were never bothered before,’ I say. ‘Not when Al “the golden boy” was around. How does any of this matter now? If I get a D, or an A, it won’t make no difference. All these exams . . . they mean nothing, y’know.’
My mum turns to face me, and I can see how angry she is.
‘It’s your future,’ she says. ‘You want to go through school having wasted all that time? Not even bothering to try? Life is hard enough as it is and you think, what? That you can just get a job, with no qualifications? Wake up, Nathan—’
‘It won’t bring Al back,’ I say.
‘No,’ she snaps. ’But neither will giving up. You’ve got something that Al will never have again – a chance of a good future. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let you throw that away!’
‘Can’t you just get off my case?’ I say.
Mum shakes her head. ‘Sometimes,’ she says. ‘Sometimes, I just wish that you could be more—’
‘More wot?’ I interrupt. ‘More like Al? Cause it’s obvious you wish it was me that was dead and not him. If Al had come back and found me, would you even be bothered? Would you even care? Probably not cause at least you’d still have your favourite son aroun—’
Her slap doesn’t hurt, but it makes a loud noise.
‘How dare you!’ she says. ‘I love you, all of you, the same. You don’t know what it’s like to lose a child – and I hope to God you never have to find out – but I’d feel this way if it was you, or Phoebe, or Saul.’
I feel bad. I didn’t mean to get so angry, but I’m just being honest. She’s always preferred Al to me, and sometimes I can see why.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, moving her hand to her mouth. ‘It’s just . . . I already feel like an awful mother. Not knowing my own son . . .’ She turns away from me, and I stand there, hating myself for saying all that stuff. I want to tell her that she’s not a bad mum and that I’m sorry. I want to say that sometimes I can’t help but fuck things up, and how I really wouldn’t blame her if she did love Al more. But I can’t get the words out.
She’s making this sniffing crying sound like a kid of Phoebe’s age. I’ve seen Mum cry so much these past few days that I’m surprised she hasn’t run outta tears. Wiping her face, she walks over to the worktop and picks up a bottle of wine. She unscrews the lid and reaches up to the kitchen cupboard. She doesn’t even bother using a wine glass, just pours the wine into a mug that says World’s Best Mum on the side. I think Al bought it for her one Mother’s Day. I don’t say anything about her drinking at this time in the morning.