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into bits of encrusted food, mud traipsed in from outside, and God knew what else.
    I went into the kitchen, looking around at the mess in there. The table, I was surprised it never collapsed under the weight of newspapers, piled-up plates and glasses that were so old and used they weren’t transparent anymore. No, they were a dusty grey, scratched and chipped.
    Very much like me.
    Funny I thought like that from such a young age. Old head on young shoulders. Weird, because at the moment, sitting here with you, Christian, I don’t feel old. I’m back to being that kid again, uncertain, not knowing which way to fucking turn or what to do. Everything’s a mess again. A nasty bloody mess.
    Shit.
    I ate cereal. Drank tea. Wandered around with my head in the clouds, in denial. John would come back. He’d just gone on holiday, that was all. He’d gone back to the seaside, was eating ice cream and digging his toes in the sand.
    He wouldn’t leave me.
    John never came back.
    I managed on my own for a while, you know? Had no choice, did I? John had stocked the cupboards, the fridge and freezer, and I know now he’d bought just enough to last me until the next Social visit was due. So he wasn’t all that bad, not really. I went to school, ate the free dinners at lunchtime, and because I was one of those kids no one wanted to make friends with—smelled of piss half the time, see—no one took much notice. I was see-through, there but not, and, used to it, I carried on in the same way I had before.
    Before they all left me.
    Don’t. You mustn’t feel sorry for me. Don’t look at me like that.
    So, it wasn’t until a knock came on the door one Friday night that my life changed again. I swung the door open, smile as wide as a damn river because fuck, John was back. He might call me a cunt, kick me from time to time, and tell me nasty shit to make me do as I was told, but I’d missed him.
    John didn’t stand on the doorstep.
    “Hello, Alfie. Is John home?”
    The woman—I think she’d only been to ours once before, wasn’t our usual Social worker—tilted her head and smiled.
    “No, he just went out.” I crossed my fingers behind my back.
    John said, if you lied and didn’t do that, you’d get caught out.
    “Just?” She smiled wider, tilted her head some more.
    “Yeah. He’s gone up the chippy for our tea.”
    “What are you going to have then, Alfie?”
    I thought about what I’d pick if I had the choice of everything off the menu. My stomach rumbled at the thought of all that food. “Chips, battered sausage, a big bit of cod and a chicken and mushroom pie. And sachets of tomato sauce. The ones with HP on the front.”
    “Gosh, that’s a lot to fit in your tummy.”
    “It’ll fit.” And it would. I was damn hungry.
    “I’ll come in and wait for him then, Alfie, all right?”
    It wasn’t all right, she couldn’t come in and wait, but shit, she walked through that doorway and perched herself on the edge of the sofa as though she lived there. I sat beside her, wanting contact, and slowly shifted my leg across so the side of my knee touched hers. I wanted a cuddle, her arms around me, her hand stroking my hair to let me know everything was going to be okay. That John would come home and everything was going to go back to normal.
    I didn’t get what I wanted.
    Instead, after Mrs Winters had waited with me for over an hour—it took me that long to remember her name—she said quietly, “Where’s John, Alfie?”
    I could have lied. Could have told her he’d be back later, that he’d just gone out with his mates, but some voice whispered that was pointless. She’d known from the minute she’d knocked on the door that John had left. Maybe a neighbour reported it, I don’t know. Maybe the school had noticed something was up. I remember sucking in a deep breath and counting to ten, wondering if I’d bottle it at the last minute and lie to her again.
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    “How long has he