‘It hasn’t.’

‘It has, y’ miserable faggot. And tell me — what do you want, ay? Can y’ tell me that? Whatta y’ want?’

‘I want you to switch the light off.’

‘No way.’

‘It’s only fair — I was in here first and you’re closer to the Switch.’

‘So what? I’m older. You should respect your elders and switch the light off yourself.’

‘What a load of bloody —’

‘It stays on then.’

It stays on for ten minutes, and then, take a guess. It’s me who switches it off.

‘You suck,’ I tell him.

‘Thank you.’

2

There’s a noise at about 3 am. It’s Sarah spewing her hole in the bathroom. I get up to check her out, and there she is, wrapped around the bowl, hugging it, cradling it. Soaking into it.

Her hair is thick, like all of us in the Wolfe family, and as I look at her through my burning, itchy eyes, I notice that there’s some vomit caught in one of her tough tufts of flowing hair. I get some toilet paper and fish it out, then wet a towel to get rid of it altogether. Spew stinks. I hate the smell of spew.

‘Dad?’

‘Dad?’

She throws her head back, to the toilet rim. ‘Is that you, Dad?’ and my sister begins to cry. She gathers composure and pulls me to my knees and concentrates on me. With her hands on my shoulders, she wails almost silently. Wailing: ‘I’m sorry Dad. I’m sorry I —’

‘It’s me,’ I tell her. ‘It’s Cameron.’

‘Don’t lie,’ she responds. ‘Don’t lie, Dad,’ and saliva falls to the skin above her red top, hitting her through the heart. Her jeans cut into her hips, slicing them up. It surprises me that they don’t draw blood. Same with her heels. Her shoes leave bite marks in her ankles. My sister.

‘Don’t lie,’ she says one more time, so I stop.

I stop lying and say, ‘Okay Sarah, it’s me, Dad. We’re puttin’ you into bed.’ And to my surprise, Sarah manages to stand up and limp to her room. I get her shoes off, just in time before they sever her feet.

She mumbles.

Words tumble from her mouth, as I sit down on the floor, against her bed.

‘I’m sick,’ she says, ‘of gettin’ shattered.’ She goes on and on, until slowly, she falls.

Asleep.

A sleep, I think. It’ll do her good.

Her last words are ‘Thanks Dad … I mean, thanks Cam.’ Then her hand trips on to my shoulder. It stays. I smile as slightly as a person can smile when they sit, cold, cramped and crumpled in his sister’s room when she’s just come home with alcoholic veins, bones and breath.