I couldn’t sleep. Again. My pyjamas were sticking to my clammy skin and my duvet was a concrete block pressing on my chest. Unable to bear it a second longer, I threw back the covers and tiptoed out of my room. The house was dark and silent, just the way I loved it. A sense of calm surrounded me that was never present when Dad was awake. During the day the Word ruled. At least the night was mine and mine alone. I skirted the walls, knowing, even in the gloom, which floorboards would creak and give me away. I made it to the bathroom, my heart skipping in welcome anticipation. Every time I did this, I swore that it would be the last time, that I wouldn’t do it again. And each time I made that promise, I knew I would break it.

Carefully closing the bathroom door so it wouldn’t click shut, I locked myself in. A couple of seconds to make sure I hadn’t disturbed anyone, then I pulled the cord to switch on the light. The sudden brightness made me blink. A bitter smile twisted my lips. What would Dad say if he knew what I was about to do? It didn’t bear thinking about. Dad had “found” God over five years ago and now me, my sister, Sophie, and Dad were all members of a growing religious sect called the Word and the Faith of the Good or the Word for short. And with the Word came a long list of “carefully selected” edicts. The problem was they were slowly but surely suffocating me. I could still remember so vividly the times before the Word.

The laughter, the imperfect calm, the contact. And in its place? Rigour and solemnity. God didn’t mean for people to live without any kind of joy in their lives, without any kind of fun, I felt sure of that. But fun was frivolous, and as for contact, that led to desire so that was another “NO or burn in Hell”.

No more time to waste. I had to do this quickly, before one of my family woke up and wanted to use the bathroom. I stood in the middle of the room and self-consciously stripped naked. Opening the frosted fanlight window, I inhaled deeply to fill my lungs with the tangy night air. God, I loved the fresh smell of the night. Moving to the sink, I stood in front of the only mirror allowed in the house. I was lucky tonight — there was a welcome night breeze. I stood motionless, closing my eyes, giving myself over to the sensation of the cool air whispering around my body. I raised my hands to look at the reflection of my palms in the mirror. Short fingernails, long, skinny fingers.

“A woman’s hands,” as Dad so frequently and scathingly told me.

I concentrated on my hands rather than my face. Why would I want to see the familiar loneliness clouding my eyes every time I looked in the mirror? Very slowly, I ran my right hand down my left arm. It was too much. Not the palm this time, just the fingers. I tried again. The fingers of my right hand crept down my left arm. My skin began to tingle. A familiar tight knot began to twist in my abdomen. My hands fell to my sides as I studied myself, hating what I saw. Who was I? Matt the loser. Matt the freak. Loneliness was meant to be a disease of the very old, not the very young. I slammed the heel of my hand against my forehead, hating the way tears stabbed at my eyes. I couldn’t go on like this. This feeling inside was eating me alive.

I once heard about an old woman who attended church every Sunday. And at the end of the service, she’d shake the vicar’s hand and smile and head home. Until, after a couple of years, the vicar commended her on her attendance. Not a Sunday missed.

“Oh no, Vicar,” said the old woman. “I don’t come to church to worship God. I don’t believe in him.”

“Then why do you come to church?” asked the vicar, taken aback.

“To shake your hand,” said the old woman. “It’s the one and only time during the week when I get to touch someone and someone touches me.”

I turned away from the mirror. I was the old woman, only not so fortunate.

If I didn’t change my life — and soon — I’d explode. And if — when — that happened, God help me. And everyone around me.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Fabian asked again, still unable to believe his luck.

I shrugged. “What are friends for?”

Especially a friend who had hung around with me at secondary school when no one else would.

Fabian grinned. “Thanks, mate. I owe you one.”

At my raised eyebrows, Fabian laughed. “Okay, I owe you two, possibly three.”

“Why don’t you just move in with Shayda?”

I asked. “You spend most of your week at her flat as it is.” And this was the longest conversation we’d had in quite some time.

“I’m working on it,” Fabian grinned. “I’m dropping hints all over her floors.”

I forced a smile. Fabian and his girlfriend had been an item for almost three years now. I’d never been that lucky. My thoughts must’ve been a little too evident because I suddenly had Fabian’s full attention.

“Matt, you’re too intense,” Fabian said. “You scare everyone away. For God’s sake, lighten up.”

But how? Easier said than done. I shrugged and changed the subject.

“What about Angie?” I asked. “Will she be at your house to let me in?”

Fabian’s smile vanished. “Are you kidding? Mum never rolls in until past midnight.”

“Oh…” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Is your mum still at it then?”

“What d’you think?” Fabian shrugged his indifference. “Is it any wonder I can’t stand to be in the same house as her?”

I nodded my sympathy. Fabian wasn’t terribly good at feigning apathy. “Don’t worry. I’ll load up my notes onto your computer and I’ll be in and out of your house in 10 minutes max.”

“Thanks. My laptop is on my bed. You can’t miss it,” said Fabian.

“No problem. But try attending the odd lecture for yourself, you skiving git.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. See you on Monday.” Fabian was already heading off.

I watched my best friend walk away, a bounce in his every step. Fabian wasn’t going to be alone tonight. My ribs felt like they were slowly but irrevocably crushing my lungs. Turning, I strode off in the opposite direction.

After retrieving the door key from inside the coach light furthest from the front door, I made my way into Fabian’s house. The late autumn evening was bright, though the air had a nip to it, but the glow of the evening stopped at the doormat. The house was quiet and sombre and smelt of stale air and staler memories.

“Hello?” I called out, more to hear my own voice break the silence than because I was expecting an answer.

I headed upstairs to Fabian’s room, memory stick in hand. But as I passed it, a strange sound came from Fabian’s mum’s bedroom. “Hello?”

I swore under my breath. What if it was a burglar? I looked around for some kind of weapon, but there was none. Fists clenched till the bones in my fingers cracked, heart racing, I stood poised, almost revelling in the sudden adrenaline rush I felt. I slowly pushed open the door.

Fabian’s mum, Angie, lay sprawled on the unmade double bed. Her hand was draped over the side, and lying on the hardwood floor was an unbroken, now empty wine glass with a tiny rivulet of red lying beneath it.

“Angie?” The word came out as little more than a whisper.

Leave. Turn around and leave.

But I couldn’t.

I walked over to stand beside the bed, looking down at Fabian’s mum. She’d hardly changed in all the years I’d known her. A couple of strands of her short, black, pixie-cut hair stuck out at odd angles. She was still pretty even though she was Jurassic, in her late forties or probably early fifties by now. She smelt sickly-sweet, of perfume and red wine. And even in sleep, she wore a look of pained bewilderment, as if she was trying to figure out something but kept failing. I pulled the duvet up past her knees to her shoulders. The room was beyond chilly. Without the duvet she’d wake up absolutely freezing. I leant over Angie, tucking the duvet more tightly around her to exclude draughts. Angie suddenly turned towards me, opened her mouth as if to cry out — and was violently sick. An eruption of foul-smelling vomit rushed like a waterfall over the side of the bed. I tried to leap back, but I was too late. It cascaded down my trousers and covered my trainers.

Every swear word I knew exploded in my head.

Angie began to cough. I clenched my fists, taking a couple of long, deep breaths before the smell of vomit forced me to take more shallow ones. Angie’s cough was getting worse.

She was choking.

“Oh, hell.” I threw back the now soiled duvet and pulled Angie’s arms till she was sitting up. I pushed her upper body forward and started slapping her back. Damn it! This was all I needed. I didn’t have a scooby if I was even doing the right thing to stop Angie from choking. But it seemed to be working. She batted feebly at my hand which was still slapping her on the back.

“Are you okay?”

Angie muttered something incoherent, then fell back, exhausted against the bed. Only she fell into the vomit on the pillow. The regular rise and fall of her chest told me she’d fallen asleep again. What now? Well, I couldn’t go home like this.

I looked down at the bed, my mouth twisting. The pillow, the side of the bed and the floor were all soiled and reeking. Angie’s hair was now covered in sick where she’d flopped back into it. And she was beginning to cough again. I turned her head to one side. Was that right? I tried to remember what I’d learnt at school. Something about the recovery position? But didn’t I have to turn her whole body to the side? Or was that just if someone was unconscious?

Damn it.

My trousers were damp and sticking to my skin like a slobbery kiss. My trousers were a write-off. And oh, God, but I stunk. The whole room stunk. If I had any sense, I’d leave Angie to it and go home. Angie or home?

What a choice.

“Angie…” I tentatively shook her by the shoulder.

She murmured something belligerent and turned away. But at least she had stopped coughing now.

“Angie, you need to sit up.” I tried to pull her upright again.

“Get off.”

“Angie, please…”

“Now what?”

“Look, why don’t you go have a shower and I’ll remake your bed. Okay?”

What the hell was I saying? I didn’t even make my own bed at home, just pulled the duvet straight so Dad wouldn’t give me grief.

“Sleep…” Angie mumbled.

“Shower first. Please,” I cajoled.

Somehow, I half dragged, half carried Angie to the bathroom. She got more irritable with each step, but at least she was finally waking up. Closing the lid, I propped her up on the toilet seat.

“Angie, you need to get in the shower.”

Silence. “Angie?”

“Okay. Okay. Go away now.”

Angie kept her head bent. With a start I realised why. She was embarrassed. And because she was, suddenly I was too. After making sure that she wasn’t about to fall off the toilet seat, I left the bathroom. I waited until I heard the shower running before leaving her to it. I really had to get out of these jeans. I couldn’t take the smell or the feel of them any longer.

So much for in and out of the house in less than 10 minutes. I stopped at Angie’s bedroom door and looked at the mess inside. Reluctantly I entered the room and stripped the bed, swearing all the time I was doing it. I balled up the bed linen and used it to clean the mess off the floor. The room still stunk. I opened the window, welcoming the evening air into my lungs before closing the curtains. After flipping over the mattress, I searched through the chest of drawers opposite the bed to find fresh bed sheets. At last the bed was made — and I hadn’t done a bad job, even if I said so myself. The soiled sheets were left outside on the landing. Angie was on her own with those. But next my jeans. I headed downstairs to the kitchen.

After making sure I could still hear the shower running, I stripped off, wiping down my legs and my trainers with the dishcloth, before washing off the legs of my trousers in the sink. Even though I’d wrung them out, I couldn’t help grimacing as I put them back on. The damp, clammy fabric clung to my legs. But at least the remnants of Angie’s last meal were now gone.

As I headed back upstairs, Angie emerged from the bathroom wearing her dressing gown, her hand groping its way along the walls as she stumbled back to her bedroom. She’d washed her short, black hair but hadn’t bothered to thoroughly dry it so it clung to her head like a swimming cap. Her dark-brown eyes were half closed, but whether with fatigue or pain I couldn’t be sure.

“Your trousers?” Angie frowned when she finally focused on me.

“You were sick down them so I had to wash them.”

“I’m sorry, Matthew. Stick them in the washer-dryer.” Angie rubbed her eyes.

“It’s okay. I’ll wash them properly when I get home.”

“Why’re you here anyway?” Angie asked. “Fabian’s at his girlfriend’s.”

“Yeah, I know. I just came to copy some lecture notes onto his computer.”

Angie nodded before heading into her room. With a sigh, I entered Fabian’s room and switched on the laptop on Fabian’s bed. Less than five minutes later, I was finished. Time to go home. As I passed Angie’s bedroom, she called out to me.

“Matt, could I talk to you for a sec?”

Reluctantly, I pushed open the already ajar bedroom door. Angie sat on the bed, still wearing her dressing gown. She smiled when she saw me, though the smile had to be dragged on to her face.

“I’m sorry about your trousers, Matt. If they’re ruined, I will of course buy you a new pair. That goes for your trainers too.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.” I turned to leave.

“Wait.” Angie patted the side of the bed next to her.

Reluctantly, I sat beside her, making sure my leg didn’t touch hers.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” she said. “How’re things?”

“Same as ever,” I murmured. I could feel warmth radiating off her. It was making me uncomfortable.

“Your dad still preaching the Word?”

“Oh, yeah. It’d take some kind of miracle to make him chillax,” I said.

Angie sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that. It can’t be much fun for you and your sister.”

“Fun?” The word shot out of my mouth behind a snort of derision. “A couple of months ago, Sophie was teasing me about something, so

I tickled her feet. That’s all. Just tickled her. But Dad…”

I didn’t say any more. I didn’t even want to remember.

Angie sighed. “That’s a shame, ’cause your dad used to be such a laugh. You wouldn’t believe some of the antics we got up to. But that was before your mum divorced him and when my Jack was still alive.”

Angie stared straight ahead into the past.

“I miss my Jack.”

I stared into my unrelenting future. “I miss my dad.”

“You got a girlfriend yet?”

“No.”

“A boyfriend then.”

“I’m not gay.”

“So why no girlfriend?”

“Who would want me?” I shrugged.

Angie made it sound like I could just pick a girlfriend off the shelves at my local supermarket. Maybe there was some note in my voice, maybe it was just the way I was sitting, but something had Angie regarding me thoughtfully. I was just about to get up when she opened her arms.

I froze.

“You look like you need a hug,” Angie smiled.

“No… I’m okay.”

“It’s just a hug, Matt. Nothing less and certainly nothing more.”

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

Angie sighed. “Maybe I’m feeling sorry for both of us.”

Her arms were still open. It was her smile that did it. She smiled at me like she knew exactly what was in my head and she wasn’t judging me. Slowly I moved closer to place my head on Angie’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around me.

And it hurt.

Deep inside, being held like this hurt.

My arm crept around her waist but she didn’t stop me or move away. How strange that where my heart had just been galloping, my heartbeat was now slow and steady. Peace stole over me.

“Why’re you doing this?” I whispered.

“Cause you’re too young to wear the same expression as me.”

We sat in silence for a long, long while, just holding each other.

“Can I… come round sometimes, when… when Fabian isn’t here?” I held my breath. Had

I gone too far, presumed too much?

“Only for this, Matt,” Angie said at last. “There is nothing else. I’m not a cradle snatcher.”

“I don’t need anything else,” I replied. And it was the truth. “Besides, I’m not a grave robber.”

“Oi! Cheeky!” Angie slapped my forehead. “We keep this between us, okay?”

“Okay.” Then something strange occurred to me. “If we get caught doing just what we’re doing now, no one’s going to believe we aren’t having an affair.”

“That’s because the truth would be rather more unpalatable,” Angie sighed.

“What is the truth?”

And Angie replied, “That we were both alone, so we decided, just for a little while, to be alone together.”

ABOUT THIS AUTHOR

Malorie Blackman is one of the country’s most loved and acclaimed authors for young adults. She was awarded an OBE in 2008 for her services to children’s literature. She lives in Kent.

Malorie Blackman’s latest book, Double Cross, is part of the Noughts & Crosses trilogy (Random House Corgi Children’s Books, £6.99). It is available at the BooksFirst price of £6.64, including p&p. Tel: 0870 165 8585

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