She stepped off the bus unable to remember any of the ride home. All she’d thought about was how to put Ste’s invitation to her parents. It was important, she’d decided, for her to show that she had pre-empted their fears, but at the same time to play them down. Her argument was ready, refined to three stages: First, a calm, reasonable and confident approach.  Second, the statement of Ste’s invitation. Thirdly, the mediation: she was on top of exam revision, Ste was a good, responsible friend, they were going to pick her up and bring her back.

She pushed through the front gate, and almost collided with Dad who was coming out of the shed.

‘What’s up?’ she asked pinning herself against the wall to let him pass. Something was wrong; she could see it in his face. She watched him disappear round the side of the house. He was wearing marigold gloves and was carrying pliers. She carried on inside.

In the kitchen, water thundered into the sink. Lucy went in just in time to see Mum take Craig’s arms roughly and plunge them into the lather.

‘Scrub them!’ she ordered, passing him a nailbrush.

Typical, thought Lucy. In trouble again. Her brother was thirteen, three years younger than her. Craig spent a lot of time in the garden – they weren’t really allowed out of the house on their own except to go to school. Perhaps he’d been playing near the septic tank again.

‘Come on. Scrub!’ Mum gave his shoulder a shove.

Lucy went to the fridge for orange juice. Mum pushed the door wider and reached past for a pack of mince and a bag of carrots. Lucy edged out of the way.

Mum returned to the sink and inspected Craig’s hands and arms – growing red from the heat and the brush. She pulled out the plug. ‘Right, in the shower.’

He barely protested, just pulled a face and scuffed off. He didn’t look at her when he passed.

‘What’s going on?’ Lucy asked. Mum was washing her hands now.

‘Don’t ask.’ She dried her hands on a tea towel and then tossed it straight into the washing machine. She started peeling potatoes.

‘Looks like Shepherd’s Pie,’ commented Lucy.

‘It is.’

She thought quickly. She needed to separate herself from Craig, they might then remember she was the responsible one.

 ‘He really needs to grow up,’ she said.

There was a long pause.

At last her Mum said, ‘How are you?’

Lucy launched. ‘Well, something quite exciting happened today. A friend’s invited me to a concert on Thursday. The Crimson Shapes?’

Heavy claws of peel gathered on the chopping board.

‘They’re driving down and coming back the same night – my friends. It’s at the Odeon. Anyway, I’m doing quite well with my revision at the moment and thought this would be a nice break.’ She swallowed a sip of orange. ‘That…ok?’

Mum didn’t look up. ‘The Odeon. Ringford?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which friend?’

‘You’ve not met him yet. Ste from the sanctuary.’

Mum’s eyes flickered up.

‘His parents driving?’

Lucy faltered. ‘Well, no … he’s going with his friends.’

‘How old is he?’

In the space between the question and her answer, the hopeful part inside her tremoured.

‘He’s nineteen.’

Mum actually laughed. ‘You must know there’s no way,’ she said, her eyes and mouth looking almost insulted. She shook her head. ‘What are you two trying to do to me?’

Lucy stood in silent shock. The front door banged and Dad came in. He too went straight to the sink.

‘Not here! I’m cooking!’

He started for the stairs.

‘Craig’s in the shower, you’ll have to wait. Don’t touch anything.’

Lucy slipped out, sat down on the sofa and stared numbly at her school bag. She fiddled with the draw strings, rubbed the frayed tassels between her fingers. Her eyes felt strange, but she wasn’t crying.

‘What did you do with it?’ She heard the tightness in Mum’s voice.

‘It’s gone. Took it down and got rid of it.’ Dad sounded tired.

‘Where?’

‘The tip. It was still open.’

The knife rapped against the chopping board. You can predict it, thought Lucy. The first rap cuts the potato in half, the next is for quarters. Three raps close together and it’s done.

‘But what if the owners come looking?’

‘You wanted me to get rid of it.’

‘I know, but if Craig killed it –‘

‘- Look, he didn’t kill the cat. It had been run over.’

‘How do you know?’

‘You can tell, Ally, trust me.’

Dad’s voice was barely keeping patience.

‘So, why did he do …that?’

There was a long pause.

‘He shouldn’t have been in the road in the first place,’ he said at last.

‘Richard, I said why did he do it? Is he -’

‘- I don’t know why!’

 Everything went quiet apart from the clack-clack-clack of the knife.

 

Tags: Nailing Cats to Trees, writing

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