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locked away in glass cabinets in the family room. If she could find a cabinet big enough she’d lock Marty up too, he was sure of it.
    As soon as his mother moved towards the bathroom to fetch antiseptic and bandages, Marty escaped through the lounge room.
    ‘Mum’s not going to let you out on weekends anymore,’ Marty’s sister said.
    Marty stopped and gave Michelle a cold stare.
    ‘Why don’t you mind your own frigging business?’ Michelle craned her neck to see the TV, which
    Marty had deliberately blocked. ‘I’m just telling you what she said. And she said you shouldn’t be roaming the streets in your condition, said you don’t understand how many bad things can happen, and that Dad’ll have to go with you if –’
    ‘Shut up!’ Marty yelled in her face.
    ‘That will do,’ his mother said, walking into the room with the first aid kit wedged under her arm.
    A band tightened around Marty’s chest. His fingers closed around his wheel rims so tightly they ached.
    ‘What’s Michelle on about?’
    ‘What have I told you about raising your voice, Martin? We’ll discuss it later, when your father gets home.’
    Marty hated that tone. It always made him feel like an idiot. His mother removed antiseptic, cotton balls and bandaids from the kit and put them on the couch.
    ‘So, it’s true. You’re going to lock me in the house like some prisoner?’
    Tight-lipped, his mother tipped antiseptic onto a clump of cotton wool and dabbed at his knee. Marty rolled away from her.
    ‘You know how I feel about you leaving the house without supervision, Martin. The last time we had this discussion you promised me you’d be careful and here you are covered in cuts and grazes.’ She lifted her chin, eyes spitting blue fire. ‘What if you’d broken a bone? Or, God forbid, something worse?’
    Marty noted the nerve jumping under his mother’s left eye, a sure sign she was annoyed. He didn’t care.
    ‘I got a skinned knee, Mother. Big deal! And so what if I had broken something? I would’ve been fine. Rick and Aaron were with me.’
    ‘And that’s another thing,’ she went on, one hand clutching the wad of cotton wool, the other raised, index finger poking holes in the air, ‘that Langton boy is too rough for my liking. Why don’t you play with that nice Peter Murphy? He’s a chess champion. I’m sure you would learn a lot from him.’
    Marty gaped at her. ‘Babies play. And there’s no way I’d do anything with Peter Murphy. He’s a try- hard retard!’
    ‘Martin!’
    ‘Well, he is.’
    His mother clenched the cotton wool in her fist and straightened up. ‘That’s it. I refuse to talk to you when you’re like this.’ She turned and began packing everything, except the cotton wool, back into the first aid kit.
    ‘Fine with me ’cause it’s all rubbish anyway.’ Marty propelled his chair through the doorway and went to his room.
    At least Marty’s dad was on his side. When he got home the three of them talked it out. He said he’d buy Marty a mobile phone so he’d be able to call
    – and be called – if anything should go wrong when he was away from home. After all it was impossible for one of Marty’s parents to be with him twenty- four/seven. His mother eventually saw the logic in this and reluctantly agreed. Even though it was a small win, Marty knew she’d be watching his every move, just waiting for him to stuff up.

    The next morning Rick rang. ‘Hey Marty. Wanna see a dead dog?’
    Marty rubbed sleep from his eyes and yawned. He’d slept badly, thanks to dreams of being chased by empty ice-cream vans. ‘Wha’?’
    ‘I found a dead dog in a drain. It’s got maggots.’
    ‘You’re seriously sick, you know that?’
    ‘Your loss, mate.’
    Marty glanced towards the kitchen where his mother was bashing around in the pot cupboard, sending out a clear signal that she was still in a mood.
    ‘Hey,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘want to hang out, maybe track down Aaron and do