Ash

We come out the other side of the woods and on to the main road. A car goes past with its lights on as me and Rabbit run along the side of the road.

‘I need to stop at my place,’ I say to Rabbit. ‘I should be able to find most of the money and I’ve still got a lot of the skunk.’

‘All right,’ he says. He looks at his watch. ‘We have to be quick, though. We don’t have much time.’

A minute later and we’re outside my house. There’s no car in the drive. The curtains are all drawn and through them I can see the glow of the downstairs lights.

I turn to Rabbit. ‘Wait out here,’ I say. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

I take a deep breath, step up to the front door and unlock it. As soon as I get inside, I walk straight through to the kitchen to the bag for life where Mum keeps all the carrier bags. I grab one and turn, and suddenly Dad’s there in front of me, coming through from the lounge, gripping a half-full tumbler of whisky. The side of his face is red and scratched.

‘Ashley,’ he says. He sounds surprised.

‘I haven’t got time,’ I say. ‘Where’s Mum?’

Dad shrugs. He’s pissed. ‘I was gonna ask you the same question.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know where she is,’ Dad says. ‘Crazy bitch hit me, packed a bag and then took off with my bloody car. She’s not answering her phone.’

I stand there for a second and stare at him. Fuck.

‘I need to talk to her, Ashley,’ Dad says. ‘Why don’t you call her on your phone? She’d answer your call.’

I shake my head, barge past him and run upstairs.

‘Ashley, come down here this instant!’ Dad shouts.

I ignore him and go into his and Mum’s room. I stand and stare for a second. It’s a mess in here. Mum’s clothes are all over the floor. I try and work out where she would have put the money I sent her. She would have hidden it somewhere, I’m sure. I go over to the chest of drawers near the window. Most of the drawers are already open. I search through them, but there’s nothing there, just Mum’s clothes. So I go over to her bedside table and rummage around. Still nothing. I try the built-in wardrobe, look among the shoe boxes stacked at the bottom.

‘What are you doing?’ Dad says.

I get up and turn round. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Leave me alone.’

Dad stands there, staring at me. ‘Get out of my wardrobe!’ he says.

I sigh. ‘Have you seen an envelope?’

‘An envelope?’

I nod. ‘Yeah. Mum got it in the post the other day.’

Dad shrugs. ‘What kind of envelope?’

‘Forget it,’ I say. I’m not gonna find the money now. I don’t have time to search everywhere. Maybe Mum’s taken it with her anyway.

Dad moves unsteadily out of my way as I leave his and Mum’s room. I hear him follow me out along the landing. I go into my room and slam the door closed. I swing a kick at my drum stool. It falls over, smacks into the bass drum. For a split second I look at the snare drum, sizing it up for a kick as well. But I manage to stop myself. I don’t have time to waste.

I go over to my desk and grab an A4 pad of paper, tear it into quarters and then stuff it into the carrier bag. When I’m done, I open the drawer of my bedside cabinet and take out the money that I kept aside. Four hundred pounds in fifties, twenties and tens. I pile it on top of the ripped-up notepad paper. I frown. It’s not gonna fool them. Not for long anyway. But maybe it’ll buy us some time. Maybe.

I grab the rest of the skunk and put it in the carrier bag. Then I roll up the bag so it’s just like a small package, hide it in my hoodie and go back out of my door, along the landing and on to the stairs. And below me on the stairs is Dad. He’s looking straight at me. I stop where I am.

‘Come downstairs and talk to me,’ Dad says. ‘At least let me explain, Ashley.’

I shake my head. ‘I’m going out,’ I say. And I start walking down the stairs again.

Dad moves into the centre of the stairs, blocking my way. ‘Ashley, please,’ he says. ‘This is more important than going out with your mates. This is your family.’

I snort with laughter. ‘Like you’d know about family,’ I say. ‘Like you give a shit. Get out of my way.’

I step down. Dad still doesn’t budge. He spreads his arms across from the banisters to the wall. I try and stay calm.

‘Ashley?’

I look down at the stairs for a second, then close my eyes and take a deep breath. But it doesn’t help. Instead, anger surges through my body into my chest and then my throat. And before I can think about what I’m doing, I push Dad in the chest. He falls down the stairs – four or five of them – and lands at the bottom in a heap, still clutching his glass, his face wet with spilled whisky and blood from the scratch on his face.

And all I can do is stare at him as he lies there pathetically in a heap. He’s not hurt, he’s just drunk. And I hate him.

I rush down the rest of the steps, stopping at the bottom where Dad’s still lying. He pushes himself up on his hands and looks at me. I get an overwhelming urge to kick him in the ribs or spit on him or something. But I don’t.

I leave the house, slam the stupid bloody plastic door behind me. It doesn’t shut and flies back open.

‘You OK?’ Rabbit says. ‘What happened?’

‘Let’s go,’ I say. We go and grab a couple of bikes from the shed – me on my dad’s and Rabbit on my old bike.