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from the shop.
    I chose a couple of packets of crisps and a can of drink from the bag, and Wayne did the same. We munched, slurped, burped and chatted – about social services taking me from school, my mum, his dad and where his mum could be. He hadn’t even had a text from her since she’d run off with some bloke at work about two years before, leaving Wayne and his older sister with their drunken pig of a father. There was gossip on the estate that Wayne’s father had caught up with her and done her in. It was possible: he was an evil shit. Wayne’s sister has to keep her bedroom door locked at night so he can’t get in.
    It was nearly 3.00 a.m. when Wayne finally yawned and said: ‘Hey, man, I’m knackered. Let’s sleep.’
    I nodded. I had hoped my mum might have phoned or texted, but I guess she was past doing either of those by now with all the drink. I didn’t have enough credit to phone her and there was no point anyway if she was unconscious. I decide to send her a text so she’d find it when she woke: Look after urself, I’m fine, luv Ryan xxx. I wasn’t going to tell her where I was in case the police asked her; Mum can’t lie to save her life.
    I took off my trainers, jacket and trousers, keeping on my pants, T-shirt and socks, and climbed into bed beside Wayne. This was how we always slept when he came to my house. There wasn’t much room in his single bed but it was warm and comfortable. Feeling my best mate beside me after everything that had happened was reassuring. We lay flat on our backs, sides touching, and stared at the ceiling for a while.
    ‘I’m butchered,’ Wayne said, yawning again. He reached out and switched off the bedside light. ‘Night, man. Fart and you’re dead.’
    I laughed. ‘Night, and thanks.’
    ‘You’re welcome, man. What you gonna do in the morning?’
    ‘Find Tommy.’
    ‘Cool, man. Don’t oversleep. I need you out of here before my old man’s up or we’ll both catch it.’

Chapter Eight
    There was no chance of oversleeping. It seemed I’d just dropped off when I was woken by a loud noise. I reached under my end of the pillow for my phone and saw it was 6.20 a.m. I lay very still and listened. Wayne was fast asleep and breathing regularly beside me. The noise came again, louder this time. Then I realised with a jolt it was Wayne’s old man on the bog. Their bathroom’s next door to Wayne’s bedroom but he could have been sitting right next to me for all the noise he was making, shitting and farting after a night on the booze. It was disgusting! Wayne slept on. I guess he was used to it, as well as the smell that seeped under the door. I heard the bog roll unravel at 100 miles an hour, then the bog flush and the bathroom door open. The dirty pig hadn’t washed his hands! More worrying were his footsteps, going downstairs.
    ‘Hey, wake up,’ I hissed in Wayne’s ear, poking him in the ribs. ‘Your old man’s up and it’s only six thirty.’
    Wayne groaned and opened one eye. ‘Don’t worry, man,’ he mumbled. ‘He’ll go back to his room with his tea. You can get out then.’
    We lay side by side on our backs again, me wide awake and Wayne slowly surfacing, as the noises of Wayne’s old man making tea floated up from downstairs. The walls in these houses are so thin you can hear everything, and I mean everything. Wayne’s old man is a big clumsy slob who lumbers rather than walks, so the noise he makes is amplified. I felt like Jack hiding from the giant in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ as I lay still and listened.
    I heard Wayne’s dad turn on the tap to fill the kettle, open a cupboard door and then set down a mug on the kitchen work surface. He did it with so much force it’s a wonder the pottery didn’t smash. It went quiet and I guessed he was pouring boiling water on to the tea bag. Then we heard him lumbering up the stairs and his bedroom slam shut.
    ‘You’ve got until seven,’ Wayne said. ‘Then he comes to wake me.’
    That