I thought I was happy when we moved to Ashford. Mum told everyone I was seven. I knew it was a lie, that I was older, but I was always in my wheelchair then, shaved head, skinny, and thin as the drug addict I’d become. She called me Grace, she said it suited me better than Zoe. So Grace I became. Again, no one questioned Mum. She said being younger meant I could be her little girl for a few more years, and that changing my name helped keep Dad away, helped her keep me safe.

Years passed. I spent whole seasons in bed. She started giving me a new pill, bright pink. It made my mouth so slippery I couldn’t swallow food anymore. Dr. Parker said I had dysphagia and Mum pretended to cry when another doctor decided it would be best for a PEG tube to be fitted in my stomach. I threw one of those pink pills across the room so Mum locked me in my bedroom without anything to eat or drink. She shouted that she’d never love me as much as she loved him. After two days I took the pill and a few months later I had the operation.

It was after the PEG tube was fitted that everything started to change again. People kept telling me I was going to be an adult soon, able to make my own decisions. I tried to stop them because it made Mum clench her jaw, grind up more pills. That’s when I knew that somehow I had to escape. I was slowly starting to understand: Mum was addicted to attention, and who would get more attention than the mother of two dead children? Then, at last, we wanted the same thing, Mum and me. We both wanted Grace Nichols dead.

16

Jon

It takes me a while to compose myself enough to start the drive back to Ashford. The methodical nature of driving helps calm me, softens the horrifying images I have of Meg giving Grace drugs she didn’t need. As I pull on to the highway my phone starts ringing. I shuffle it out of my pocket expecting to see Cara’s name, but it’s not Cara calling. It’s Jakey. I click the speaker button and answer.

“Hi, mate.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Shouldn’t you be at school, Jakey?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got the dentist’s this morning, so Mum’s dropping me at school later.” His voice is monotone, the vocal equivalent of heel-dragging.

“Everything OK? You sound a bit low.”

“Auntie Emma came over last night.” Ah. Ruth’s twice-married and newly single best friend from her schooldays, who is in a determined man-hating phase. A hundred quid says I am the current target.

“Mum thought I was in bed. They’d been drinking wine and I heard them talking about you. They were saying some really shitty stuff, Dad.”

“Jakey, don’t swear.”

“You do, so does Mum and Auntie Emma, all the time.” There’s a small squeak to his voice, a reminder that adolescence is right around the corner.