I know I never say this, because most of my writing is shit, but I'm actually quite proud of this chapter. I adore Gill's relationship with Sammy. All credit for inspiration: Amelia Bullmore and Jake Roche.

Sammy?"

The boy, curled up on the sofa with his hands over his ears as the TV blasted out some of the crap people called 'pop' these days. Music had changed so much since Gill was a kid, and not for the better, either.

As she crossed the room, part of her brain was considering how inappropriate the music was, both because of the constant swearing and the upbeat nature to the song – neither suited her mood. The other part of her brain was screaming, over and over again, the same thing. Shit.

"Sammy," she kicked off her heels, sank down onto the sofa beside him, touched his face. Cold. "Sammy, what's wrong? Please?"

"Mm..." he shuddered, "Mum."

She reached across to grab the remote, and muted the TV. Slowly, he lowered his hands, staring up at her with eyes that reminded her only of Dave's, eyes that were pleading with her.

"What's wrong?"

He rolled over, and she reached instinctively to grab his elbow, only to be thanked by her son splattering vomit all over her bare feet. The new carpet; she'd never get that smell out. Shit.

She seized him roughly, "Are you pissed?"

"Mum. Gerroff."

Slurring his words. His eyes unsteady, not responding to her gaze. He was shivering, although the room was far too hot for her liking.

Somehow, she never thought she'd get to this point with her son. She knew he'd suffered a bit – okay, a lot – when Dave had walked out (perhaps because she'd made him suffer with her own suffering; how complicated was life?) but not this. She never thought her own son would throw up alcohol all over her.

"Okay," she said, "Okay."

She stood up and went to the kitchen. Took a piece of kitchen roll and wiped her feet, nausea rising in her own throat. Leant against the sink for a few seconds, images of her son in an open casket flashing through her head.

Then him as a little boy, grinning as his dad pushed him higher and higher on the swing, waving at her as she stood a few metres away screaming orders down the phone to a colleague. What had she done to the boy she was supposed to love unconditionally; what had she caused?

She ran the tap and washed her hands, then found a clean glass – amidst the last few nights' takeaway boxes, stinking almost as bad as the sick – and filled it with water.

She helped him sit up, and pushed it into his hands, "Drink."

"But Mum..."

"No buts, Sammy. Drink it." This is my blood, which is given to you. She felt like Jesus, for God's sake. That was quite funny actually – blaspheming in the same sentence as holy words. The flicker of irrational amusement was pushed aside by guilt and confusion. "All of it."

He did as he was told.

"Right. Now you tell me what the hell is going on."

"Nothing... nothing's going on."

"What the bloody hell are you doing sitting in my house, throwing up on me? I told you I was busy tonight, didn't I? I said to you – and feel free to correct me if I'm wrong – that you needed to sort something out with your father tonight, because I was busy."

"You," he ran a hand through his hair, "You're not busy."

"No. I know I'm not."

"Are you... are you okay?"

Oh, shit, Sammy. How did we end up here? "No. No, I'm bloody not. Why the hell are you here, and why the hell are you pissed?"

"I'm sorry."

Suddenly he was sobbing in her arms, clinging on to her, his tears soaking through her top and hitting her flesh like bullets, sharper and deeper every time. And somewhere inside her sick, twisted, selfish mind, she wished it was Rachel instead of Sammy curled up against her, needing her.

"What, Sammy?"

"Mum..."

"Come on, kid. It's okay, I'm here now."

She'd rarely seen him, as a child. Well okay, she'd seen him, but not like any normal parent. She'd missed parents evenings and school concerts; she'd left him a microwave meal to heat up rather than making him tea after school, and bought him a magazine as a substitute to her being there asking about his day.

The NPIA had made her feel alive, and she'd forgotten just how much until those days with Rachel, a hotel room apart, bonded by their family problems, bonded by their job. She'd been so like Rachel, once. Maybe that was why; why all of this was happening.

But whilst she'd been feeling alive, how had her son felt? Dead? Did he still feel that way, abandoned and alone? Fought over, like he was a possession or something? Was this a cry for help?

"Sammy. Sweetie."

He looked surprised by the affection in her tone. Then he just sobbed harder into her chest. "Mum, he..."

"He? Who's he?"

"Dad. He... he's thrown me out."

"He's done what?" she pushed him from her chest, standing up and pacing back and forth across the room, "Why? Has this got something to do with her, the whore?"

Sammy shrugged a shoulder and collapsed backwards onto the cushions, a snivelling wreck, like a toddler with a graze on his knee, just crying for his mummy to make everything okay.

"Right. Okay. I'm going to call him – I'm going to..."

"No, Mum; don't."

"Well, you need to explain everything to me, then."

"I..." he wiped his eyes with shaking fingers, "Don't be mad, Mum."

"Oh, you think this isn't mad?"

"He... he was slagging you off. He had an argument with her, and then she stormed out and he started drinking. Then he was getting all upset, crying, and he was going on about you."

"What, she – the whore – stormed out?" Gill snapped. With each repetition of the whore, more and more malice was injected into her tone, loading the name with poison. "And there was me thinking everything was so bloody rosy between them."

"Mum. Mum, he was saying you were a crap mum; he was going on about how you never even cared about me or him, how you were married to the job. He said you were glad I'd gone to live with him, because you could go back to just loving yourself, and not caring about anyone else."

She didn't speak.

"And I told him that wasn't true, and he was saying how she'd been a much better mum to me than you ever were, because she was actually around some of the time to help with my homework and make cakes for tea," he sniffed, "And he kept swearing, and crying. Then he threw a plate at the wall, and it smashed, and his hand was bleeding everywhere."

Shit. The arsehole. "It's okay, Sam. It's okay now."

"And then he said... he said he wanted me to stop seeing you. He wanted me to tell you what I actually thought of you, and then for me to leave and never come back again. He said you didn't deserve... you didn't deserve me, and he'd buy me a car and you wouldn't."

"A car? He thinks this is about a car?"

"And he was saying all this stuff about you. And... and I'm just sick of it, I'm sick of him. Always being drunk, and her... I said it wasn't you who didn't deserve me, it was him. And I said he was a shit dad, and I hated him, and I never wanted to see him again – then I walked out."

"Okay," Gill said, moving back across to him slowly, helping him up, "Come on. We'll get you upstairs and into some pyjamas, okay, and then I'll sort out all of this. All of the mess, and then I'll sort things out with your father. Everything will be okay, Sammy; I promise you."

"I..." his voice broke, "I love you, Mum. I'm sorry."

"Oh, Sammy. I love you too," she stroked his matted hair, kissed his sweaty cheek, "I love you so, so much."

And I love someone else too.

XxXxX