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Nothing. That’s what my dad says. “Know what you’re good for, boy? Bloody nothing, that’s what.”’
    I leave Norman laying mines and looking for German snipers near the swings. I drag the dead branch out of the park and down Burdett Road. Get some funny looks. There’s two blokes standing at a bus stop. One looks at his mate like he’s going to say something really witty. Then he says, ‘See you’re branching out on your own then, love.’ And falls about laughing. I stick my tongue out. Walk past.
    It’s getting dark already when I get back to the bomb site. Rain falls heavily from the foggy autumn sky. This is where our secret camp is. Well, not so secret really – just the old air-raid shelter. I stack the branch next to the rest of the wood. Duck inside the shelter.
    I come here a lot to think, or sometimes just to get away. It’s falling down in places. The old, rusty corrugated tin roof’s fallen off and some of the bricks have crumbled.The floor is just earth. But me and Reggie have made it all right. We’ve stuck up some old canvas as a roof to keep the rain out, and we found some milk crates to sit on.
    I keep my stuff in here now, out of Bert’s way. My writing books, pencils and my Sherlock Holmes books are all in an old biscuit tin. I’ve had it for ever, ever since I can remember. I asked Mum once where it came from. She said it was a special present and she’d tell me why one day. On the lid is a picture of a girl with red hair, bit like me really. The picture is difficult to see now, because the lid’s pitted with red rust spots and a bit faded. The girl is sitting on a swing, looking out across a field. There’s something on the ground near to her but I can’t make out what it is. There’s the maker’s name on it but it’s all been scratched so I can’t read it, and next to it is written ‘Best Biscuits’ in this lovely curly writing. I wonder if they do one with ‘Worst Biscuits’ written on it too. One end of the tin is crumpled so it doesn’t fit any more. It looks like someone trod on it. Someone did. My stepdad.
    I’d been trying to write a story. I was lying on the floor, had my stuff spread out around me. He bent over and nudged my elbow so that my pen left a streak of ink across the book. Then he laughed and slowly trod on the tin lid. One end just folded in. Squashed. I didn’t know why he did it. Still don’t. Maybe he guessed how much I loved it. For some reason, it always makes me think of my dad.
    Mum never talks about my real dad. I used to ask her about him but she always got funny. Like she had to be onher guard. She’d always put me off.
    â€˜Another time, Alice, I’m too busy at the minute.’
    or
    â€˜Tomorrow, love. I’ll tell you about him tomorrow.’
    And guess what? Tomorrow never comes. Seems strange that she doesn’t want to talk about the man she loved, the man who was the other part of our family. That makes me sad, especially when I look at my stepdad and see the kind of things he does. Like he’s trying to show me something, to let me see that he’s bigger and stronger than me, that he’s the boss. Thing is, if he really loved me he wouldn’t want to boss me around.

8
Fireworks
    I settle myself on one of our old milk crates. Rain hurries down as if it can’t wait to leave the sky. Drums its fingers on the canvas roof. I was hoping Reggie would be here. Hoping we could make it up.
    I look out at the branch from the tree and think about our row. It started because I had to go and do an errand for my mum, so I gave Reggie my money to get the fireworks. He bought them at Giovanni’s sweet shop. Put them on his cart, then went next door to get something for Granddad. He saw the Spicers hanging around, but didn’t think anything of it. If it had been me I’d have thought a lot about it. For a