He seemed nice. Any warning signs were hidden by his newness. Mum was happy, so I was happy too. And, even when she wasn’t, she disguised it so well that I was allowed to be a kid for a tiny, blissful bit longer.

I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house over the next few years. They were always excited to see me, but, after a while, their faces showed something else too—worry.

When I went home, there would often be broken things—door panels, windows, anything made of glass.

Mum moved into my room, and we would lie awake on Saturday mornings, not daring to make a sound until we heard the front door slam and the car pull away. The weekends were our refuge. We didn’t enjoy them, but we felt less afraid.

The worst thing was the fear that lingered in the corners, creeping forward as the hours ticked away.

On Saturdays, Martin went clay-pigeon shooting. Sometimes—the best times—he didn’t come back until we were asleep. On Sundays, we didn’t know where he went. But we didn’t care. All that mattered was his absence.

Mum did her best to fill those days with good memories, but it’s hard to enjoy something when you know it’s just a brief escape from a nightmare.

I remember sitting in the bath while Mum rinsed my hair. I remember Martin bursting in and yelling at me to get out.

I remember standing in the hallway, dripping wet and freezing, while the sound of his heavy, never-ending piss filled my ears.

He forced Mum to stay in the bathroom so he could tell her how pathetic I was. When he was done, he walked past in silence while she wrapped me in a towel.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, over and over again.

Every time he did it, she apologized. Eventually, I stopped sobbing, but I could never stop the shivers.

When I realized he did it on purpose, I stopped wanting baths. I would fight with Mum until she gave in and let me wash in the sink with a flannel.

That’s what I remember about Martin—all the times I stood outside the bathroom, naked and freezing and alone. That and the gun.

22

The only time Mum fought back, I thought she was going to die.

I don’t remember why they were arguing. There probably wasn’t a reason. It was just what happened. But, this time, Mum spoke up or hit back, and Martin went to the safe where he kept his rifle for clay-pigeon shooting.

I heard the click as he loaded it and watched as he held the barrel to Mum’s head. He didn’t shout. He didn’t smile. He just stood there, pointing a gun at my mother. I was seven.