Once all our mismatched dishes are dry, Nick goes through to the living room and I stay in the kitchen, staring out of the small window. The view makes me feel suspended in the black sky. Only if I move forward and lean over the sink can I see the twinkle of the city below.

Mum and Nick talk in low voices in the living room. I shuffle closer to the wall but can’t hear what they’re saying, so I slip out of the kitchen and sneak up on them. They’re standing now, though, sliding open the door to the tiny balcony. I hang back to watch them step through and light cigarettes, the glowing ends floating like fireflies. And I feel a twinge of satisfaction when I realize Nick’s leaning on the spot where the birds always splatter their white goo.

Then I see him grab my mum’s arm. See her step back, shaking her head. He moves closer, gesticulating, while she turns her face away. I stand watching the shadow-puppet theater of their argument, a screen of stars behind them, and I feel that reflux again, that acid searing up into my throat.

—

Two days later I’m whirling about getting ready for school and Mum’s racing around getting ready for work. The flat feels extra tight in the mornings. We’re both disorganized, in a hurry. We keep colliding.

I know it’s not the right moment to bring it up, but Nick’s been here all weekend, so this is the first time I’ve managed to get Mum on her own. As she’s flinging things into her handbag, I ask, “Were you ill last week?”

“What?” She’s checking she’s got her cigarettes and the shabby umbrella she carries everywhere.

“Nick said you had a bug, but I didn’t know.”

“Nothing to know, really. Got your PE kit?”

“Yeah, I can’t find my new shorts, though. The blue ones are too small . . .” I bend over to riffle through the washing machine, discovering the newer shorts scrunched up inside, still damp.

Mum’s face falls. “I’m sorry, love, I completely forgot to empty it yesterday.”

I stuff them into my bag anyway, hoping they’ll dry before second lesson. Then I glance sidelong at Mum, who’s shaking her head, cross with herself. “Nick said you’re out of sorts because of being ill,” I venture.

She snaps alert, turning back to her own handbag, which has fallen onto its side and is spitting out loose change. “I’m not out of sorts. I’m fine.”

She reaches to get her tea flask down from the shelf, and that’s when I see it. I’m frozen as her post office shirt rides up, exposing her lower back. There’s a shiny, plum-colored bruise rippling across its width.

11.

CHRIS