In memory of Zoe Biller

a very special girl

HAVE YOU EVER wondered what you’d do if you won the lottery?

My mum won. She did, really. OK, she didn’t win the jackpot. We don’t live in a great big mansion. I wouldn’t want to even if Mum had won mega-millions. I’d hate to live in a big house with heaps of rooms. You’d never be able to keep track of everyone. Someone could be creeping along the corridor ready to get you and you’d never know.

I’d like a really small house. A caravan would be even better. It could be ultra-luxurious, with purple velvet fitted sofas and matching purple curtains and purple satin sheets on the bunk beds. We could even have a huge purple glass plate piled high with big purple bars of Cadbury’s milk chocolate for us to nibble on any time we fancy. But it would have this never-fail alarm system if anyone approached. Then I’d strap Kenny and me to the sofa and Mum would jump in the purple Ferrari permanently hooked to the caravan and whizz us off to safety at hundreds of miles an hour.

Mum didn’t win the lottery on the television. She won with a scratch card. I’m not talking ten pounds though. Ten thousand!

She looked at the card in the street and she gave this great whoop. She picked my little brother Kenny up and whirled him round and round until he squealed. She couldn’t pick me up too because my mum’s quite little and I’m big for my age, but she gave me a huge hug and kissed me on both cheeks and then on the tip of my nose too, which made me giggle.

‘Right, let’s get back inside the shop,’ she said. ‘We’re going to spend spend spend! Only don’t tell old Sid behind the counter. He’s such a gossip he’ll tell everyone on the whole estate and then the next time we’re down the pub we’ll be buying drinks all round for people we haven’t met before.’

‘Right, Mum,’ I said. I gave Kenny a little nudge. ‘Are you taking this in, chum? Keep that little lip zipped.’

Kenny giggled and acted out zipping his lip. Then we went back in the shop.

‘Come for another scratch card, Nikki?’ said old Sid, shaking his head. ‘You mums and your lottery cards!’

‘Yeah, right, tragic, isn’t it?’ said Mum. ‘And no one round here ever wins, do they?’

She caught my eye and grinned. Kenny grinned too. He opened his mouth.

‘Zip!’ I hissed, and hustled him over to the ice-cream cabinet.

‘I’ve decided to pack in buying scratch cards altogether,’ said Mum. ‘So I’m going to spend my lottery money on treats for the kids. OK, Jayni, Kenny, what are you having?’

I chose a white Magnum and a tube of Rolos and a packet of marshmallows and a giant bar of Cadbury’s fruit and nut and a bottle of Coke and a Girltalk and a Doll Collector and a Puppies and Kittens because they all have good pictures for my scrapbook.

Kenny chose a small red ice lolly and a Thomas the Tank Engine comic.

‘You can have more than that, Kenny. Anything. Sweets, chocolate, more comics, whatever you want.’

‘I don’t want whatever. I want my lolly and my comic, like always,’ said Kenny.

‘But you can choose more, Kenny.’

‘I can’t choose,’ said Kenny, starting to sound upset.

‘Oh, leave him be, Jayni,’ said Mum.

She had no problem choosing a Hello! and an OK! and a Cosmo and a big fat Vogue and a bottle of diet Coke and a large pack of posh ciggies.

‘I thought you were buying treats for the kids,’ said Sid.

‘Yeah, well, I’m a kid at heart too,’ said Mum, paying him.

She used up nearly all the money in her purse but she’d get the £10,000 soon and then we’d be laughing.

‘I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky,’ Mum sang, to the old Kylie song. She did a little dance, shaking her hips and sticking her chest out, twirling Sid’s carrier bag full of goodies. She took Kenny’s hand and mine and made us dance too, even though it was hard for us to hang onto our ice creams. Kenny nearly stuck his lolly up his nose every time he tried to take a lick.

A lorry driver hooted when he saw Mum dancing. He yelled something and Mum laughed and waggled her bum at him.

I just love it when Mum laughs. She tosses her soft blonde hair and opens her mouth and shows all her lovely white teeth. They’re little and even and pearly white even though she smokes lots of fags. She doesn’t have any fillings. I’ve got five already.

Mum turns heaps of heads even when she’s not dancing around. She did a bit of modelling when she was younger. She’s got her own scrapbook with pages cut out of newspapers and magazines. We’re not supposed to look, Kenny and me, because Mum isn’t wearing a lot and some of the poses are quite sexy.

I’ve tried locking the bathroom door and stripping down to my knickers and trying out some of those poses myself. I look ridiculous. I’m as tall as my mum but I haven’t got a proper figure. It doesn’t go in and out in the right places. My hair’s wrong too, even though I’ve grown it past my shoulders at long last. It’s boring old mouse and Mum says I can’t have it highlighted her colour blonde until I’m a teenager. It costs a fortune to have it done properly.

Up until the day Mum won the lottery we were always strapped for cash. Mum had to stop modelling when she got married because Dad didn’t like it.

‘I’m not having other guys ogling my wife,’ he said. ‘You’re giving it up, Nikki, understand?’

Mum understood. You don’t argue with my dad.

I wondered if Mum was going to tell Dad about the lottery money. I knew we should keep our mouths zipped with him too. But Mum was so so so stupid when it came to dealing with Dad. She’d do anything for him, give him anything, do exactly what he said. It was partly because she was scared of him. But it was also because she was still crazy about him. He’s so good-looking, my dad, lean and tall, with deep blue eyes and a great tangle of black, wavy hair. Everyone thinks he looks incredible, it’s not just us. Lots of the women on our estate were nuts about him. Even some of the girls at school acted like he was a rock star.

He was once. Well, he used to sing in this band, the Mad Beggars. They didn’t make any actual albums but they sold their own tapes at all their gigs. They played in pubs and clubs all over the city.

Mum went along one night with her mates and stood at the front, right underneath my dad on the stage.

‘And I fell in love, whoomph, just like that,’ Mum said, snapping her fingers.

Dad was the one who snapped his fingers. She went off with him that night. She’s been with him ever since.

Dad’s band broke up after a year or so. Dad had a fight with the lead guitarist. It looked like Dad and Mum might break up too because Dad didn’t really want to be tied down with a steady girlfriend. But Mum told him I was on the way.

‘You brought us together again, Jayni,’ she said.

That’s why my name’s spelt in such a weird way. They called me after both of them. My dad’s called Jay and Mum’s Nikki.

I might have brought them together but I cried a lot as a kid and it got on my dad’s nerves so he cleared off once or twice. Then Mum cried a lot too. She loved him so much even though he’d started hitting her by this time. She hit back at first but then he hit harder.

He hit other people too. He ended up doing time in prison for GBH. We went to see him once a month, Mum and me. I remember he was very sweet to us then. He made a big fuss of me, telling me I was his pretty little princess, though I was this plain, podgy kid with no front teeth at that stage. That’s the really scary thing about my dad. He can make you feel so special – but he can also smash your face in.

I knew it was wicked but I wished he could stay in prison for ever. He was safe behind bars and we were safe at home. But he got out eventually, even though he had to serve his full term because he kept getting into fights.

For a week or so it was like Mum and Dad were on their second honeymoon. Dad made a big fuss of me too. He bought Mum a huge bouquet of red roses and he bought me a big bunch of purple freesias. He bought Mum a bottle of pink champagne with a pink ribbon round it and he bought me a bottle of Ribena with a purple ribbon. He bought Mum a huge box of white cream chocolates and he bought me a giant bar of Cadbury’s, so big I could hardly hold it in my two hands. But it all started to go wrong when I was only halfway through the chocolate.

Dad thought Mum was flaunting herself when they went out to this club and he hit her when they got home. He started to hit her if a man so much as looked at her. He was convinced she’d had all these boyfriends when he was in prison.

He’d ask me about it, over and over. He shouted with his face up really close so his spit sprayed all over me. I told him that Mum only had eyes for him but he wouldn’t believe me. He went on hitting Mum even though she was now pregnant with Kenny.

Mum called him Kenneth, after her dad. This was a bit weird of her, because we never ever went to visit my grandad or grandma or Mum’s older sister, Auntie Barbara. Grandad told Mum he never wanted to see her again when she went off with Dad. He said she was throwing herself away. He insisted my dad was Trouble with a capital T.

I suppose my grandad was right. But he was wrong the way he treated Mum. And us. He didn’t want to see Kenny even though he was named after him. He didn’t even say much to Mum and Kenny and me when we went to see Grandma in hospital when she was dying of cancer.

It was worse at the funeral. Mum tried to hug Grandad afterwards but he pushed her away. He said it was all her fault Grandma got ill. It was the shame of having her daughter living with a vicious criminal.

We haven’t seen him since. It was a waste of time lumbering Kenny with such a duff name. It will be much worse when he’s old enough to watch South Park.

Dad was OK for a bit after Kenny was born. We’ve got a photo taken on a day at the seaside and Dad’s got baby Kenny on his shoulders, a little skinny knee either side of his cheeks. Kenny looks scared stiff but he’s clinging grimly to Dad’s long hair. Mum is laughing up at him, holding a beach ball. She’s wearing a bikini top and a tiny skirt, showing off her pierced belly button. Her tummy is as flat as a pancake even after having Kenny and me.

I’m standing by her side. I’m wearing a bikini top and a tiny skirt too. This is a BIG mistake. My tummy isn’t like a pancake. I look as if I’ve swallowed a beach ball.

Dad loved having a son. As soon as Kenny could toddle he was kicking a ball to him and taking him down the pub. Kenny struggled so hard to kick the ball back he usually fell over, and he drank so many Cokes and lemonades down at the pub trying to drink pint for pint with Dad that he often wet himself on the way home.

Dad was surprisingly gentle with him. He didn’t even get cross when Kenny cried. He refused to acknowledge that our Kenny was the wimpiest little kid on the whole estate.

‘He’s a holy terror, my lad Kenny,’ Dad would boast, holding Kenny high above his head until he squealed. ‘Growing up into a regular little bruiser, scrapping all over the place. He’ll be banned from his nursery school if we don’t watch out.’

Kenny did get into fights at nursery, but it was with the little girls. He wanted to squeeze into the playhouse with them. They weren’t having any so they hit him with the plastic teapot and gave him a black eye.

Dad even boasted to the teachers when Kenny started in reception that they’d have their work cut out coping with his little lad.

I’m the one who had her work cut out coping with Kenny. I’d sneak over to the babies’ playground to find Kenny trailing around by himself, head drooping. The other little kids would push him over just for the fun of it, leaving him snivelling, rubbing his eyes with his grazed hands, blood trickling down into his socks. He’d scream if the teachers or dinner ladies went near him. I was the one who had to pick him up and mop him.

I do all the mopping up. I remember when Mum really was playing around with this guy she met up the park. He was running, training because he was in some reserve football team. He looked a bit like David Beckham.

I caught him with Mum when I came home early from school because I’d been sick. Mum made out he’d just popped in for a coffee, but they looked all hot and rumpled.

I was sick again because I was so scared. I didn’t see how she could take such a crazy risk. I knew Dad was up north for a couple of weeks on some dodgy-sounding business trip but he had lots of mates spying for him and telling him if his missus was playing around.

‘Are you crazy, Mum?’ I said.

‘I can’t help it, Jayni. He made me feel like a girl again,’ said Mum, her cheeks bright pink. ‘It’s not been right between me and your dad, not for a long time.’

‘But Dad’ll kill you if he finds out,’ I said.

‘He won’t find out. Well. Not yet.’

‘You can’t tell him!’

My stomach churned. Mum could be so stupid. I knew that look in her eyes. She was telling herself a little fairy tale. The footballer would clasp her to his six-pack chest and tell her he’d been picked to play for Manchester United and would she be his bride in the million-pound mansion that he’d just bought. Plus he’d take Kenny and me too. Mum drifted into Dreamworld and went shopping with Victoria Beckham every day while Kenny and I asked Brooklyn and Romeo round to play with all our new toys . . .

‘Mum!’ I wanted to shake her. I knew her footballer. He had a different girl every week. He’d never stick with Mum. And he wouldn’t want Kenny and me tagging along. Anyway, even if it all came true, even the Man U part, Mum couldn’t possibly live happily ever after. Dad would smash his way through the big picture window and tear the footballer’s head off his shoulders and then he’d beat her until the fluffy white carpets turned red.

I hated saying this to Mum but I had to make her see sense. Then Dad heard some rumour anyway and came straight back home. You could tell by the way he banged the front door that this was it. Big trouble.

He didn’t start straight away. He asked Mum questions, his voice very quiet, very soft. ‘Come on, Nikki, don’t look so scared. I just want you to tell me I’ve got it all wrong. If I have, then fine, I’ll drop it straight away. I’m a reasonable guy, aren’t I?’ Then, suddenly yelling, ‘Aren’t I?’

Mum panicked. She gabbled that he’d got it all wrong, she’d never so much as looked at another man, though of course she couldn’t help being lonely while Dad was away, but even so she’d never dream of talking to any other guy, let alone ask them in for a coffee . . .’ Any minute now she’d be letting it all out, telling him everything.

I wished I were as little as Kenny. He always hid under his bed, clamping his hands over his ears so he couldn’t hear. I had to listen, even though I couldn’t bear it.

Dad took much longer than usual. He said he was teaching her a lesson she’d never forget.

When he’d finished he stormed off out again. I ran to Mum. I wondered if I should call an ambulance. She couldn’t speak because her mouth was all bloody and swollen but she shook her head when she saw me pick up the phone. She’d been up to the hospital several times in the past. She never told on Dad, she always said she’d tripped or walked into a lamppost, but Dad got even madder if he found out.

I mopped her up as best I could, holding a cold flannel to her poor face. I cried all over her. I felt so bad that I hadn’t been able to protect her.

She couldn’t go out for a week because of the bruises. Not just on her face. I saw her in the bath. Her breasts and stomach were black.

I looked at my mum then and knew I hated my dad.

‘DON’T TELL DAD about the lottery money,’ I begged Mum.

‘Don’t worry, I’m keeping quiet. Lips zipped, like I said.’

She asked for it in five-pound notes so it looked as impressive as possible.

‘We’re in the money!’ she sang, tossing handfuls of fivers in the air. They fluttered like big blue butterflies, sticking in her hair, catching on her clothes, landing all over the carpet.

‘Mum, stop it, you’ll lose some!’ I said, trying to gather them up.

‘You win some, you lose some,’ Mum laughed, tossing more.

Kenny laughed too, kicking his way through a pile of notes as if they were autumn leaves.

‘Leave off, Kenny,’ I said.

But I started to get carried away too, scooping the money up and then scattering it again. These crisp new notes didn’t seem real. I thought of the picture of the denim jacket lined with soft pink fur I’d cut out and stuck in my scrapbook. I knew if I could only own such a garment I might have a chance of looking as little and cute and blonde as the girl model.

‘What are you dreaming of buying, Jayni, eh?’ said Mum, putting her arm round me. She rubbed her soft cheek against mine.

‘Well, there’s this jacket—’ I started. Then I swallowed. ‘No, it’s your money, Mum. You already treated us in Sid’s.’

‘Don’t be so daft. What’s mine is yours. And yours too, Kenny. What do you want, my little pal?’ Mum asked.

‘A comic and a red ice lolly,’ said Kenny.

We groaned at him.

‘Something else, Kenny. Something big. Like a denim jacket with fur.’

‘I’d like a jacket like Dad’s. Leather!’ said Kenny, his eyes shining. ‘Then I’d look a big boy. Big and tough.’

‘You, big and tough, matie?’ I said, picking him up and blowing a raspberry on his tummy.

‘What about Dad?’ said Kenny, squealing. ‘What’s he getting?’

I looked at Mum. She sighed and started gathering up the money. I set Kenny down and started helping her.

‘We’re not telling Dad, Kenny,’ I said, smoothing the five-pound notes, assembling them into neat rectangles.

‘Why?’

I looked at Mum.

‘Why aren’t we telling him, Jayni?’ she said.

‘Because we know what he’s like. He could take it all for himself and waste it on some business deal that goes wrong. Or he could take it down the betting shop, or go away on a bender with his mates – and it’s your money, Mum.’

‘Yeah, but maybe it’s not fair, if we’re all having presents,’ said Mum. ‘Here, I could kid on I just won a bit, right, and then hide the rest.’

‘He’ll find out and then he’ll be furious. And then he’ll start.’

‘Yeah, OK,’ said Mum flatly. ‘Right. Well, we’ll be sensible. I’ll put the money in a building society and save it for a rainy day. And you won’t get your new jackets, kids, but we can’t make your dad suspicious – isn’t that right, Jayni?’

‘Yes,’ I said, putting the money in her bag.

I hated it that I had to be the one to be sensible. And I ached for that denim jacket.

‘Can’t I have my leather jacket like Dad’s?’ said Kenny.

‘No, love. Jayni says we can’t,’ said Mum.

It wasn’t fair. I hate the way Mum twists things sometimes. She tries to turn me into the mum. Then she blames me for spoiling things.

I threw the rest of the money at her and went off to my bedroom to work on my scrapbook. I started cutting up my new magazines, though Kenny had been at my scissors and they were all gummed up with sellotape. I picked all the mucky little sticky bits off the blades, my teeth clenched. Then I carefully cut out a Victorian doll with a purple crinoline. I snipped my way round every little twist and turn of her full frock and steered very slowly around her tiny button boots and cut in and out of her fiddly little fingers. I pretended I was a Victorian girl in a big purple dress and this was my matching doll. I had a little brother who was very obedient and adored his elder sister. We didn’t have a papa.

Then I cut out a tiny, toffee-brown cocker spaniel puppy with very floppy ears and a Siamese kitten with a delicate heart-shaped face and big blue eyes. These were our pets, Toffee and Bluebell. I cut some flowers from my birthday card box and a blue sky background and then I tried to draw a big Victorian house because I couldn’t find a proper picture of one anywhere. I’m not very good at drawing so I just did a rough outline of a big house. I cut out girls’ faces from Girltalk and stuck them looking out of all the windows, bordered by wax crayon purple velvet curtains. These were all my very best friends, Charlotte, Victoria, Emily, Evangeline and Jemima. It took me ages to think up special Victorian names.

I was so lost in my scrapbook world that I didn’t hear the front door bang. I didn’t know my dad was home until I heard him call, ‘Where’s my princess then?’

I shut my scrapbook up quick and shot into the living room. It’s never a good idea to keep my dad waiting. But he’d called me princess, which was a promising sign. He might be in a good mood.

He smiled as I rushed into the room. ‘There’s my girl!’ he said, beckoning me over to his armchair. Kenny was already on his knee. Mum was snapping open a can of beer and pouring it for him.

‘Great, isn’t it, Dad’s home early,’ she said.

I breathed in. ‘Hi, Daddy,’ I said in this false small-girly voice.

‘Hi, Princess,’ Dad said, and he patted the arm of his chair.

I perched there obediently. I stretched a smile across my face while my eyes swivelled all round the room, looking for a forgotten fiver on the rug, under the coffee table, tucked in the telly mags. I couldn’t see any but I still couldn’t breathe out comfortably. Dad was in a good mood, but he could turn in seconds. You never knew what might set him off. Some silly little thing you said – sometimes just a look, sometimes it seemed like no reason at all. It was as if Dad’s head was wired up weirdly and every so often he was programmed to explode.

But today he seemed mellow, even though he said he’d had a row at work so he’d walked out. ‘And about time too. Who wants their poxy job?’ he said.

Three months ago, when he’d started working there, he’d had us all reciting that it was the best job ever, his Fresh Start.

He was making another Fresh Start now. He’d met an old mate down the pub at lunch time who was setting up his own minicab firm. He wanted Dad to join his team of drivers.

‘Will he provide the car, like?’ Mum asked.

‘No, I’ve got to get the wheels, babe.’

Mum always softened when Dad called her babe. She forgot that he could also call her a dozy cow or worse.

‘Still, that shouldn’t present too many problems. There’s a mate of mine wants rid of a very nice little Escort, two years old, not much mileage to speak of. He’ll let me have it dirt cheap too. I’ve just got to raise a few thousand. I’ll get a loan off someone, just you wait and see, babe. My luck’s changed. I can feel it.’ He reached out and patted Mum on her bum.

‘Jay!’ She laughed at him – and I felt my stomach screw up in a knot. She was looking at him like he’d suddenly turned into a handsome prince. ‘It is our lucky day,’ she said.

She was going to blow it. She was going to tell him.

Don’t! I mouthed at her. She just blinked at me, pretending she hadn’t seen.

‘You’ll never ever guess what, Jay,’ she said. She went to her handbag and fanned out a great handful of fivers. ‘Here’s your car money, darling. I won it on a scratch card! There’ll be enough for treats for all of us. Our Kenny wants a little leather jacket just like his dad. Jayni wants one of them denim jackets lined with fur – pink fur, isn’t that right, pet?’

I had to smile and say yes and act all excited.

I was scared it was going to go horribly wrong. Dad paused, staring at the money in Mum’s handbag. You could see his brain going tick, tick, tick. But then he threw Kenny right up in the air and caught him and whirled him round. He pulled me up too and we danced round and round and then he danced with Mum, giving her a great big movie-star kiss, telling her she was his Lady Luck.

We went out for our tea to T.G.I. Friday’s to celebrate. Mum and Dad had fancy cocktails and then we ordered this h-u-g-e meal. I started to wonder if it was going to be all right after all. Dad was larking about and cracking jokes and flirting with the waitress. I wanted to believe in fairy tales and have fun too. I ate all my giant burger and chips and then an entire Death by Chocolate.

These women on an office outing came over to Dad, as giggly as girls, and asked if he was Jay Fenton who used to sing with the Mad Beggars. When Dad said he was they all squealed. The prettiest one with the lowest-cut top stuck her head up close and asked if he’d give them a little song now. They were having a great night out but this would be the icing on the cake.

‘I’ll be the cherry on top of the icing, darling,’ said Dad, and he went over to their table and sang to them all.

Mum drained her glass of wine and then ordered another bottle. ‘What?’ she snapped when she saw me looking at her. ‘Those women are buying your dad drinks, look.’

I didn’t want to look. I hated it when Mum and Dad drank lots because it always ended up in a fight. I buried my head in the menu instead, though I was so full up I had to undo the top button of my jeans. I read each meal description very carefully. I wished I could cut out some of the pictures for my scrapbook.

I used to play this game with Kenny – I’d find a picture in a magazine of a big chocolate cake with layers of thick cream and I’d reach out my finger and touch the paper cake and pretend to lick the cream off my finger, going, ‘Yum yum yum’. Sometimes it seemed like I could taste the cake, feel the smooth cream and the sponge crumbs on my tongue.

Kenny would beg me for a piece of cake. I’d hold the page out to him. He’d stab his fingers all over the slippery paper, trying to reach through into the soft cake. He’d suck hard at his fingers but he could never imagine it for himself. ‘I want the cake!’ he’d wail.

‘God, you’re not still hungry?’ Mum said, pouring the new bottle of wine.

‘God, you’re not still thirsty?’ I said.

‘Don’t you go all snippy with me, miss,’ said Mum, giving me a kick under the table. She was wearing her best black high heels with very pointy toes.

‘That hurt, Mum!’

‘Rubbish,’ said Mum, but she reached under the table and rubbed my shin. ‘There, that better?’ She was leaning so far forward she overbalanced and ended up under the table.

‘Whoops!’ She tried to get up and banged her head. She started half laughing, half crying.

‘Mum!’ I hissed, trying to hook her out.

‘Mum!’ said Kenny, giggling, thinking it was a big joke. He slid off his chair and squatted beside her, going, ‘Shh!’ as if it were a game of hide and seek.

‘Oh please, get up, Kenny. Mum, Dad will see. Quick!’

She couldn’t be quick to save her life. She just crouched there, clutching Kenny, tickling him now. Dad was looking our way. I gave him a sickly grin, waving like everything was all right. Dad stopped singing and came over to us.

‘What the hell . . .?’

‘Kenny fell under the table. Mum’s just trying to pick him up,’ I gabbled.

‘Dad! Dad, we’re hiding!’ Kenny squealed.

‘Well, now I’ve found you, and you’re coming up out of there, my lad,’ said Dad. He seized him under the arms and pulled. Kenny came up laughing and kicking.

‘Mind your drink, Kenny!’ I said, grabbing it just in time.

‘What about my drink?’ Mum said, trying to crawl out on her hands and knees.

‘What are you playing at, Nikki? Are you drunk?’ said Dad.

‘No – but what a good idea! Let’s all get drunk to celebrate. I’m Lady Luck, that’s what I am,’ Mum said, hauling herself up. Her hair was all tousled and her mascara was smudged.

‘You look a right mess,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, let’s go home. Jump to it.’

We jumped. I was scared all the way home, wondering what was coming. There was this awful Voice of Doom in my head. He’s going to beat her up.

Maybe Mum could hear the voice too. She started singing to shut it up, all her favourite old pop songs. Then Kenny started whimpering and Mum picked him up, balancing him on her hip, singing ‘Mr Sandman’. She used to sing it to me when I was little, very softly, very slowly, and whenever she came to the ‘lend me your ear’ bit she’d nuzzle it, pretending she was going to nibble it right off. It always soothed me and made me go to sleep. But Mum’s voice was too high and wobbly now. Dad didn’t join in the singing. He didn’t say a word all the way home.

The first thing he did when he got in was pour himself a large glass of whisky. He drank it back like tap water.

‘Right! Here we are. Our happy little family. Lucky us, won the lottery. Only it just suddenly occurs to me, Nikki, you’ve been acting a bit odd about all this. Why didn’t you tell me right away, eh? Why didn’t you yell it out the minute I got in? Were you going to keep it a secret? Were you going to keep quiet about the cash, keep it all for yourself, eh? Or maybe you were going to spend it on lover boy? Your little footballing chum. Still in touch, are we?’

‘Of course not, Jay. You’re the only guy for me, you know that,’ Mum said. She was still clutching Kenny. ‘Look, let me tuck Kenny up, OK? And you get to bed too, Jayni.’

‘Oh yes, to give you time to make up a few excuses,’ said Dad. ‘I wouldn’t bother, Nikki. I’ll get the truth out of you one way or another.’

Mum carried Kenny out of the room. She called to me to come too.

‘Are you deaf, Jayni?’ said Dad. ‘Get to bed.’

I wanted to go to bed and pull the covers right up over my head. But I didn’t go. ‘I’m staying up, Dad,’ I said.

‘You what?’ said Dad. Nobody ever spoke back to him. Especially not me.

‘You heard me, Dad,’ I said. My mouth was so dry the words were whispers. My chocolate pudding stirred round and round in my stomach.

‘Get to bed this instant, you cheeky little cow,’ said Dad. He got out of his chair and raised his hand.

I wanted to be brave but I couldn’t help squealing then. I didn’t make much noise but Mum came running. She saw us, Dad’s hand in the air, me ducking, like we were both stuck playing a grim game of statues.

‘Get to bed, Jayni!’ Mum said.

‘I’m staying here,’ I cried.

‘What’s got into you?’ Dad said.

‘It’s you! You spoil everything! Even a lovely thing like Mum winning the lottery. It’s all spoilt because of you and your moods and your shouting and your hitting. I knew you’d be like this. Why can’t you be like a real dad?’ I yelled.

Dad’s head jerked as if I’d hit him. He stood still, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t quite work it out. I think that’s why he hit me. He didn’t know what else to do.

It was a slap across my face that lifted me right off my feet. I ended up flat on my back on the carpet. Mum leapt at Dad, scratching his face with her long nails. He punched her and then when she was on the ground beside me he kicked her. Then he spat at both of us and walked out. The door slammed behind him.

‘Oh, Jayni, let’s look at you,’ said Mum, kneeling beside me.

‘I’m . . . OK. He hit you more, much more.’

‘Can you get up, darling? We’ve got to be quick,’ Mum said, pulling at me. Her nose was bleeding and she wiped it impatiently with the back of her hand. ‘Come on, sweetheart! I need you to help me pack.’

‘What?’ I stared at Mum. I didn’t know what she was talking about.

She cupped my burning face with her hands. ‘We’re not staying. Now he’s started on you he won’t stop. I’m not having that. We’re running away!’

I STARED AT Mum.

‘How can we run away?’

‘Easy. I’ve still got the ten thousand pounds in my handbag. Well, we’re about fifty quid down because of the meal, but never mind. Thank God I didn’t give it to him for that stupid car. OK, OK, I’m the big stupid. He said he’d knock some sense into me – and he has, he has. I’m not having him using you as a punchbag, kiddo. Come on, then. You are up for it, aren’t you?’

‘Yes! Yes, of course I am. But he’ll go berserk when he finds us.’

‘He won’t. We’ll get right away, you and me and Kenny. A completely fresh start. So come on. Pack a bag, just a little one you can carry. And do one for Kenny too while I go through all my stuff.’

‘Mum . . . this isn’t a game, is it?’

‘Do I look like I’m playing a blooming game?’ said Mum, wiping her nose again. ‘He’ll be down the pub till closing time but we want to be well away then. So come on, Jayni, jump to it.’

So I jumped. I ran into our bedroom and snapped on the light. I looked weird in the mirror, one side of my face bright red where Dad had hit me, one side chalk-white. Kenny blinked in the sudden bright light and tried to pull the duvet over his head.

‘No, Kenny, we’re getting up. Come on, you’ve got to get dressed.’

‘But it’s night time.’

‘Yes, but we’re going out again.’

‘With Dad?’

‘No, just you and me and Mum.’ I hauled him out of bed and hugged his little squirmy body hard. ‘And you’re going to be a big big boy and help.’

Kenny reached out and touched my red cheek.

‘Ouch!’

‘Will it get right again?’ said Kenny.

‘Of course it will. Now!’ I stood him on the floor and looked at him. He was still wearing his T-shirt and pants and socks. I had a brainwave. I rummaged in his drawer. ‘Put these on then, OK?’ I said, thrusting more pants and socks at him. ‘Over the other ones. And another T-shirt. And then there’s your red jumper, you like that, and the blue Thomas the Tank Engine one, and your jeans . . . We’ll have to pack a spare pair, we’ll never get another lot on over the top.’

Kenny started giggling hysterically as I shoved as many clothes on him as I could. He waddled about so comically I couldn’t help laughing too, though my heart was going thump thump because I was so scared Dad might come back and catch us.

‘What are you kids laughing at? Come on,’ Mum called urgently.

I set Kenny to packing his favourite toys in his school bag and started on my own clothes. It was easier for me. All my stuff was getting too small and tight and made me look far too fat. I hated nearly everything. I was already wearing my favourite outfit, my purple velvet skirt and my black grown-up top. I shoved a big black cardie on over the top and then my horrible padded white jacket, which made me look like a snowman – but never mind, I could get the denim jacket now we had lots of money.

I packed my underwear and my jeans and my pink top with the hearts and my suede boots which rubbed a lot but I still loved them. Then I remembered my pyjamas, and my old bear Pinkie was tangled up inside them. All her fur’s worn smooth and shiny and she’s lost an eye which gives her a lopsided expression. She’s really tatty now and I’m too old for teddies anyway but I still crammed her into my bag.

Kenny was making even sillier choices, shoving a yoyo without any string and broken crayons and a jigsaw set with half the pieces missing into his school bag, but forgetting his new wax crayons and little Bob, the blue bear he’s had since he was born. I repacked for him, and then jiggled my own stuff around, packing a big carrier bag with my scrapbook and my new magazines and scissors and sellotape and Pritt.

‘We’re done, Mum,’ I said, going into her bedroom.

She looked as if she was in fast forward, rushing round like crazy, ransacking her wardrobe and her chest of drawers. Her nose still wouldn’t stop bleeding. It made a garish trail past her lips, down her chin, dripping onto her blue top.

‘Your best blue top, Mum!’

‘It’ll wash out. I’ll leave it on. Though it looks a mess. Should I just dump it?’ Mum stood still, suddenly freeze-framed.

‘Put a sweater over it. I’ve got Kenny wearing half his clothes,’ I said.

‘You’re a clever kid,’ said Mum.

She didn’t think me so clever when she saw my carrier bag. ‘You can’t drag that along too, Jayni!’

It was one of those big strong fifteen-pence supermarket carriers but my scrapbook only just fitted inside. It’s a huge, old-fashioned accounts book with hundreds of pages. I bought it for a pound two years ago at a car boot fair. It is my most valued possession. Mum knew this, but she still argued.

‘You can’t take that great big thing, not when you’ve got your own bag, and you’ll probably have to carry Kenny’s too.’

‘I’ll carry it all, I promise. I have to have my scrapbook.’

‘You could start a new one.’

‘I need this one. It’s got all my best ever pictures. I have to take it, Mum.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, do as you’re told!’ Mum shouted. Then she stopped, her hand over her mouth.

We heard footsteps walking along the balcony towards our flat.

‘He’s back!’ Mum hissed, and we clutched each other.

But the footsteps went past our front door and on down the balcony. Mum breathed out and tapped her hand over her heart. Then she gave me a quick pat on the shoulders. ‘OK, OK, take the bloody scrapbook. Let’s just get out of here, quick.’

She got her suitcase and her handbag, still wadded tight with five-pound notes. We hung Kenny’s heavy satchel over his small shoulders. I grabbed my own school bag and the scrapbook carrier. We looked round the flat one quick last time.

Kenny suddenly wailed that he wanted to take Bubble, our goldfish. I promised him he could have a whole tank of tropical fish in our new place but Kenny wouldn’t be diverted. He started howling, his arms round Bubble’s bowl.

‘Oh God, what next?’ said Mum. She poured some water into a polythene bag and tipped Bubble into it. ‘OK, he’s coming too,’ she said. ‘Now, let’s go.’