But maybe it’ll be OK?
Sammy’s trying to wriggle sideways out of the seatbelt straps when he hears the scream.
Avery’s scream.
He knows it anywhere because sometimes all Avery does is scream. Because his shirt itches, because his food is different, because something is wrong wrong wrong but he lost his words to explain.
Sammy twists to stare out of his window at the club. His dad bursts out, followed by men in coloured shirts and gold chains and shiny shoes. Are they all laughing? Avery’s in a ball in the middle, rocking with his hands over his ears. No no no no – you don’t laugh when Avery’s like that. You have to hold him. You have to take him away till he calms down. Even Sammy knows this and he’s only seven.
But the men shove his dad and sneer and laugh and one nudges Avery with his shoe and Avery screams again.
Then their dad, all hunched over and flushed, picks Avery up and throws him over his shoulder. Hard to do because Avery writhes and kicks. Then his dad fairly bolts for the car while the mean men laugh and vanish back into their club.
Sammy holds his breath. As soon as his dad opens the door, he’ll ask him to give Avery back the car. It’ll fix everything. It doesn’t matter if Avery’s too old. It makes him feel better.
The words are lined up in Sammy’s mouth, all ready – but his dad doesn’t open the door. Instead, he throws Avery down on the gravel between parked cars.
And he hits him.
Avery’s screams turn to sobs.
Sammy fights with his seatbelt now. Really fights. Avery didn’t mean it – he didn’t try to be bad – he just—
no no no no no no no
This is Sammy’s fault.
His chest burns and the butterflies explode out, scared and twisted and sick. He slaps his palms against the glass, but his dad is bringing hell.
Avery’s screams cut in half between the damp thwack thwack—
Sammy slaps at the window. He cries out, but there’s no one else in the car park. No one to hear over the thunder of the club. No mother. No teacher. No one who cares that his dad’s molasses eyes are burnt out and his teeth white shark lines in the moonlight as he bites out, ‘You lost my only chance working with them – you – stupid – little – shit.’
Avery’s voice cuts off into something garbled and sick and then his screams
c
r
a
c
k
and stop.
Silence.
Sammy’s beaten his knuckles bloody on the window. His chest burns with something like tar and rage and he doesn’t shy back when his dad wrenches the car door opens and dumps Avery on the seat. His dad slams the door, kicks it viciously, and then gets in the driver’s side.
Sammy can’t breathe. He is red fire and he is burning. You’re not allowed to hit Avery like that. You’re not allowed. He stretches shivering fingers to his brother. His brother who is finally still and quiet.
He’s being good.
Avery is a paper doll all in ribbons, hair flopped over closed eyes. His lips are bloody and his thin jacket has ridden up to show darkening bruises.
The car rips out of the car park and takes a corner so fast Sammy’s head hits the window. His cry cuts off and he jerks at his seatbelt again and finally, finally it comes loose. He wriggles free and crawls across the seat to Avery.
His dad slams the radio on, turning it up to blast. But his eyes find the rearview mirror and meet Sammy’s.
His dad’s eyes are furious.
Sammy hates him. His lips peel back like he is now a tiger and he would bite his father if he was closer. Sammy, strong and fierce, crouches over his brother. Protects him. The car skids over frosty roads while Sammy rubs circles on Avery’s palms and kisses his bloody cheek and wants and wants Avery’s eyes to open.
‘It’s OK,’ Sammy whispers. ‘I’m here. Avery? It’s OK.’
He repeats it a hundred thousand times as the radio blares and his dad punches the steering wheel.
Sammy’s voice is trembly but fierce. ‘If anyone hurts you again, I’ll kill them.’ He wipes blood from Avery’s lips. ‘I’ll kill them.’
Deep in the house, Avery is shouting.
Sam shifts, fingers still desperately knotted around sleep because he doesn’t want to let go. He’s warm and dry and, well, OK, not entirely comfortable since there’s a crick in his neck from sleeping awkwardly in a chair. But he hasn’t slept this well in a long time. Probably because he drugged himself. Whatever. Just … just a few more minutes …
Thumps follow the shouts, and then a clatter of dishes.
Sam frowns in his sleep.
Wait: if Avery is shouting he’s probably seconds away from melting to the floor and losing it. Sam needs to get up and—
Sam tries to roll over but his legs get caught between the armchair and a bookshelf. And it’s that moment when he remembers he’s not in a house with Avery.
He’s in an empty house.
That’s not …
empty.
Sam sits bolt upright, catching himself before he pitches off the armchair. Holy shit. He’s in a house that’s not empty. The cosy warmness of the room has dissolved in sparks of flames. He’s not even sure what time it is. Did he sleep all night? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
He scrabbles off the armchair and over to the desk. Shoving aside a few folders and tins of pens reveals a sad-looking clock that must be wrong because it reads eleven forty-five.
Sam’s slept for a whole day.
His heart chooses this moment to rabbit out of his chest. This can’t be happening. Not hearing Avery sneak up on him is one thing. But sleeping through a family returning? He’s losing his touch.
He’s losing his mind.
He can’t be here—
What if they walk in—
They’ll call the cops—
He can’t be arrested, he can’t can’t can’t—
Footsteps pound past the office and the closed door rattles a little. Sam’s heart vaults into his throat and he stumbles backwards, trips on his own backpack, and ends up sitting hard on the armchair. Think. They haven’t come in here yet, so that’s good.
Good? Nothing is good.
He’s in a house full of people. He’s upstairs. He can’t get out.
‘DAD!’ a girl’s voice hollers right outside the office door. ‘TELL YOUR SON TO SET THE TABLE.’