May

Gold for Cash

P.O. Box 7781

London

W1A 1ET

01/05/13

Dear Mr Phelps,

We are sorry to inform you that we will be unable to accept the Fool's Gold DVD (starring Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey) that you sent to us through the post. Unfortunately, this item does not contain any actual gold.

Our records indicate that this is not the first refusal letter you have received from us, and I would therefore like to take this opportunity to remind you of the purpose of 'Gold for Cash'. Our company offers customers the opportunity to sell their gold ('gold' here relating only to the precious metal) for its cash value. Therefore, we are in the market for genuine gold products, e.g. jewellery, coins, etc.

We hope that this explains the purpose of our company. Please ensure that any future items posted to our address are of the actual precious metal variety.

Yours sincerely,

Miss N. Walker

(Customer Service Representative)

The first week of May offered little in the way of enjoyment. I'd been back at school for almost three weeks, which was too long, and the next half-term seemed miles away. My Year 11 students were approaching their final GCSE exams at the end of the month, so my desk looked like it had been hit by a typhoon of unmarked practice essay papers. Usually, my approach to marking was one of mutual blissful ignorance with my students: they produced very little work of very low quality and, in return, I let them off as long as they didn't expect me to mark it. Unfortunately, practice GCSE work was second-marked by other members of the department. That meant it actually had to be done. On the April front, things had been quiet since the Easter holidays, as she'd gone away on holiday with her family. She'd sounded pretty stressed out when I'd called to arrange another meet-up, but I put it down to the hassle of packing. Judging by the state of April's flat, it was a wonder she managed to find anything at all in there, let alone the items needed for a trip away. I hadn't expected the lack of April in my life to affect me but, unable to contact her, I missed her more than I cared to admit. It wasn't any of that Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder bullshit – no, merely a case of wanting what you can't have. I'd always been a sucker for that.

When the first weekend of the month arrived, I found myself stuck in the flat marking on a Saturday morning. I was extra annoyed because it was a Bank Holiday, and most people were outside drinking in the sun. I was extra, extra annoyed when I saw what some members of 11XP had actually written in their rather calamitous attempts to answer a set of past-exam questions on Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

Question 1: Which of the spirits has the biggest effect on Scrooge? Explain your answer using key information from the novella. [40 marks]

Probly all of them coz all ghosts are well scarey innit.

Kyran Kershaw

Question 1: Which of the spirits has the biggest effect on Scrooge? Explain your answer using key information from the novella. [40 marks]

Mayb Sambuca becos my mum always goes reyt mental after a few shots of that. If Scrooge didnt like Sambuca then mayb it was whisky or vodka.

Courtney Weston

It was going to be a long day.

Two hours into my marking marathon, the buzzer rang and I actually felt happy at the prospect of receiving a guest; school-work can do very strange things to you. I stamped a huge, red, capital F across Mason King's page and went to identify my visitor. 'Hello?' I called through the intercom system.

'Simon? Is that you?'

Oh you have GOT to be kidding me.

'Simey? Hello?' the familiar voice came again.

I felt like placing the receiver back down and pretending not to have heard anything.

'Erm, Simon, I can hear you breathing.'

Fuck. 'Emma, hi! It's you.'

'It's meeeeeeee! Surprise! Hurry up and buzz me in, will you? Oh, and I need a hand carrying my luggage up the stairs.'

Luggage?

Three coffees later, I realised that Emma had the same knack as April did for talking so constantly that I wasn't sure whether either would realise if I left the room. I'd been sitting pretty much in total silence while she'd filled me in on: Dad's latest attempts at re-plastering the utility room (total dis-ahhh-ster, according to Emma); Max's recent developments, including a fascinating, really long list of literally all the new words he had now mastered; and her firm's plans for a Summer Ball in aid of some tedious charity (Emma liked to keep on top of what was going on at work, despite the fact she'd left years ago to have Max). What she hadn't filled me in on, however, was the actual reason she was sitting on my sofa. In my flat. In Sheffield. Drinking coffee like it was in short supply.

'So, Emma, not that I don't love you just arriving at my flat on a Saturday afternoon, unannounced, with what looks like an overnight bag sitting in the hallway…'

'But, you want to know why I'm here?'

'Well, yeah. I mean- it's just- well- you don't visit often. In fact, I think you've only been here once, when I first moved in?'

'Mmmm, and I haven't been invited back since!' she laughed uncomfortably. 'Well, for a start, I thought I better come up here and teach you the meaning of R.S.V.P.'

'Huh?'

'For goodness' sake, Simon, you didn't even have the decency to let me know you weren't coming to Henry's Regatta Gala.'

'Re-what-ta What-ta?' I mimicked.

'Oh, don't play silly beggars with me, Simon. I called you three or four times to invite you to Henry's birthday bash last weekend – I left messages. You never even got back to me. I understand you're very busy with work – honestly, I do. I mean, gracious, I can see I've interrupted you from it today. But couldn't you at least have called to let me know you weren't coming? Mum went mental when she realised you hadn't even sent Henry a card. I mean, Uncle James came all the way over from Europe for goodness' sake!' At the mention of his name, I clenched my fists so tightly I thought I might cut off the blood supply to my fingers. 'So, there I was, defending you again. In the end, I had to pretend you'd phoned during the party just to placate Mum. Can you imagine that? Feeling so desperate you have to fake a phone call?' A silence stretched out between us. Emma sat with arms folded, waiting for an apology. I refused to comply. How was it my fault that she'd married a massive twat and now held the most pretentious parties ever that nobody with any sense wanted to attend? And how was it my fault that she'd invited Uncle James? In fairness, Emma didn't know of my hatred for him, but still. I stared at her, unaffected. She cracked first, as I knew she would. 'Anyway,' she continued, 'I brought your party favour; I had one made for you just in case you did decide to come. And there's one in there for your guest as well; I'd thought you might bring someone. That elusive housemate of yours, perhaps? As I say, I wasn't sure of your plans.' For the first time in a while, I felt a pinprick of guilt as she handed me two very small, white, cotton bags patterned with blue anchors. One bag had been hand-embroidered with

SIMON

in gold thread, whilst the other bore

SIMON'S GUEST

Bugger. Maybe I actually should have R.S.V. with the truth: that I would rather dip my testicles in lighter fluid and play 'Flick the Lit Match' than attend her 'soiree'. I pulled at the drawstring handles on one of the cotton bags and withdrew a package wrapped in bubble wrap. Inside was a beige mug decorated with a cartoon picture of a brown rowing boat and the message:

Life is oar-some!

'Wow, these are great!' I lied. 'I bet Henry thought these were jolly good fun.' When I looked up, I noticed Emma's eyes shining with tears. Fucking hell, they're only mugs; what kind of reaction does she want from me? 'No, I mean – they really are fantastic, Em. Bloody brilliant! In fact, I think I'll have another coffee right now just so that I can use mine. Do you want another?' Behind me, I heard her tears begin to stutter out like machine-gun shots. What the hell is with all the crying women turning up at my door recently?

'I'm- I'm so sorry, Simon,' she sniffled. 'I honestly didn't mean to turn up and just break down on you like this.'

'I don't mind.' Oh yes I fucking do.

'I suppose I should probably explain.'

Must you?

'It's just- well- I- erm- Things at home aren't going so- Oh, Simey.' She placed her head in her hands and began full on blubbering into them. Wet, gulping sobs: the worst kind. I mean, no-one looks attractive when they cry, but this kind made her look repulsive. Her eyes crumpled in on themselves and her mouth gawped open, guzzling noisy mouthfuls of air between wails. Her shoulders were shaking. She stayed like that for a long time. I suppose any normal person would've felt inclined to hug her, to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be ok. It's not that I didn't know the expected etiquette of such a situation; I simply didn't wish to conform to social niceties. Why would I want her rubbing her snotty face on the shoulder on my favourite hoodie? I'd only just washed it.

Eventually, she calmed herself down and moved from the sofa to the kitchen table. The upside to having a ridiculously small flat is that one main room can be so multi-functional, providing a kitchen, dining room and lounge all in one. Emma pulled out a chair and I noticed that she'd moved to silent crying now, salty rivulets leaking from her eyes. At least that kind made her look a little less ridiculous. 'As I said, things aren't really going so well at home. Henry and I have been arguing a lot, so he's burying himself in his job, as usual. It's almost as though he'd rather be at work than at home at the moment. I mean, he always has a lot of new accounts to oversee at the beginning of the new tax year but, I don't know, his hours are just getting longer and longer. I thought it would get better as he moved up through the firm, not worse. I don't want to be one of those wives who's always nagging at him but even when he is at home, it's not as though he's really with us – Max and I. He's so snappy. So irritable. You know he even had the nerve to shout at me after the party his mum and I threw for him? He didn't shout at his mum; oh no, God forbid he should upset Mummy dearest. He thanked her and left all of his real feelings for me. Apparently, all the nautical props we bought weren't rowing-related. Apparently, they were more associated with sailing. Apparently, his Oxford friends had a right good laugh about it – all at his expense.' She was staring out of the window now but her eyes had glazed over. I couldn't figure out whether she was even speaking to me, or more speaking to herself out loud. 'I guess I'd hoped this little one,' she stopped to look down and rub her rounded stomach, 'well, that he or she might bring us back together again. It's probably just my hormones. I mean, I remember feeling like this when I was pregnant with Max. You know, I thought Henry was vacant, Henry wasn't prepared, Henry wasn't reading enough baby books – I'm sure it was all in my head. Just like it probably is now! He is a great man - an intellectual. And he loves me…I know he does. It's just, recently, I almost feel as though I'm a single parent. Max is always in bed by the time Henry gets home from work. And you know what the most worrying thing is? He doesn't even seem to care. As long as he can come in, drink his Cognac and read The Financial Times, he's happy. And, I mean, he won't even discuss the idea of me going back to work after this one's born. Apparently, a mother's place is at home with her children. God, don't get me wrong, I love Max to pieces but I miss working, you know?'

Am I supposed to answer that? She appears to be handling the rest of the conversation entirely by herself… Thankfully, she moved on before I had time to decide.

'I'm so sorry – I shouldn't be boring you with all this. These silly hormones are sending me round the bend!' She faked a laugh with pitiful results. 'But, since I'm already here and everything, I thought maybe I could, well, maybe I could stay here tonight? I'll be out of your hair in the morning, promise. I just thought that a night alone looking after Max could be the wake-up call Henry needs. Maybe then he'll realise what I'm stuck doing all day every day while he's out at work.' She stopped and looked up at me through her soggy eyes: those bright, cobalt eyes - so clearly from our father.

The silence in the room crossed its arms, tapping its foot: the silence that signified Emma's need for me to approve her overnight request. I didn't want her to stay, but she'd made it bloody difficult for me to say no. Unfortunately, I chose to say nothing for so long that my pause was taken as acquiescence. 'Thanks, Simey. You're the best. I'll just nip for a quick shower, then maybe you and I can watch a film or something?'

Whilst Emma was in the bathroom, I tried to return to my marking but couldn't concentrate. It was obvious why she hadn't retreated to Mum and Dad's for her neurotic episode: she didn't want to shatter their illusion. Emry's perfect little life of marital bliss wasn't so blissful after all. That'd be pretty big news, especially for Mum. God forbid the golden child should falter, or that our family's connection to money might be snatched away. As for me, I could have felt a little smug. I could have almost taken pleasure in seeing the cracks form in my sister's perfect façade. I could have almost smiled at the thought that her life might disintegrate in front of her privileged eyes; that Mum and Dad might finally look at her with the regretful disappointment they looked at me. But I didn't think about those things. That was too selfish, even for me.

Ninety minutes later, I was halfway through a soppy, made-for-TV film on a channel I had never felt the desire to access before (and never would again). Emma had wept solidly for about thirty minutes and had made her way through the only toilet roll in the flat. Fearing the reaction I'd garner from suggesting I left her alone to go out and buy more, I texted Jay.

Sat 4 May 17:28

Where are you?

West Street

With beers

Come down

I can't. Emma's here – crying. Eurgh.

Her and Henry the Mega Twat had a fight.

Can you pick up some bog roll on your way back?

Emma? Henry?

My sister. Her Oxford husband. They've had a big fight.

Can you get some toilet roll or not?

Your FIT SISTER is in MY flat?!

I know what she needs to make her feel better

Direct her to my room - tell her to start without me

I'm on my way

You're sick.

Get the bog roll.

The woman on screen was about to be reunited with the son she hadn't seen for fifteen years when Emma finally realised she was out of material to mop up her unending Tsunami of tears. She looked helplessly towards me, holding the empty tube in her hand. 'There are some tissues in my room – by my bed,' I said, nodding her in the general direction. Is it weird to direct my sister to those tissues? I mean, it's not like they've been used already or anything, but I think we all know why guys keep tissues next to their beds. I certainly don't want to be seeing my sister's face when I'm next reaching for them… A crashing sound resonated across the hallway and snapped me back to reality.

'Oh God, Simon – I am so sorry!' Emma shouted from behind the door. I stood up, welcoming any excuse to leave behind what would, from that day on, be known as the worst film I'd ever seen. In the hallway, Emma was standing amongst splinters of broken pottery. And piles and piles of hand-written notes on scraggy slips of paper. 'I'm so sorry, Simey. I've gone and bloody broken your lovely piggybank. I knocked into your dresser and it fell out into the hall. Dear me, I'm so clumsy. If only it had dropped onto the carpet in your room instead…' she was crouching down now, bending with difficulty over her bowling-ball stomach, preparing to clear up the mess she had made.

'Stop!' I shouted, louder than I'd intended to. She was holding one of the slips of paper in her hand. She glanced up at me, eyes red and bewildered. 'I'll get this,' I said, lowering the volume of my voice and trying to disguise my urgent tone. 'You go and sit down, Em.'

'No, no - honestly, it's the least I can do. And, of course, I'll need to buy you a new piggyba-' It was too late. She was reading the little telltale note that lay so innocently in her palm.

'What's this?' She read the note again. 'What on Earth are all these, Simey?' She was picking them up – picking up my private thoughts and holding them in her fingers. She began reeling through them aloud.

Con: Noreen's rancid coffee breath.

Con: Forgetting you have a paper-cut and then squeezing a lemon.

Con: After-school meetings that run past 4.

Con: Escaped loonies in the chip shop.

Con: Parents who refuse to take their whiny babies out of coffee shops.

She was almost laughing, eyes darting from piece to piece. 'Seriously, what's this all about?'

I said nothing.

Her intrusive voyage continued.

Con: Two-day hangovers.

Con: Old people walking slowly.

Con: The stupid, deserting café bitch who cost me £6.40.

Con: Unruly pubes.

She laughed for real this time, smiling up at me as though I was making some kind of weird joke she didn't understand. But her cheeriness evaporated into thin air when the next piece of paper unfurled itself. It was scribbled on the back of a Sainsbury's receipt. She looked at it for a few seconds before reading it out.

Con: Feigning enthusiasm for Emma's pregnancy. Again. As if it wasn't hard enough the first time!

For a moment, everything was still. She stared at the receipt, roving over my written words again and again, digesting it slowly. Next, she was on her feet, waving the piece of paper in my face and shouting things I was sure I didn't want to hear. I zoned her out entirely (a skill I'd developed over time), and watched as she stalked around the flat, picking up her belongings piece by piece and throwing them into her Luis Vuitton holdall. Her hands kept flailing in the air as she yelled. Although it wasn't exactly something I'd intended for an audience to see, I was surprised by her over-reaction. Perhaps this was the reason Henry spent so much time at work; if I had to come home to this every night, I'd probably sleep under my bloody desk. She was heading for the exit by this point, pointing at me and screeching at a pitch I hadn't heard before. I caught the words 'why I bother' and 'really done it this time' but the rest was barely comprehensible. Swinging the door open, holdall tucked under her arm, she came face to face with Jay. He was propped up against the wall outside, trying to catch his breath.

'Emma, I assume?' he panted, mustering a wink. 'Woah, what's that you're hiding under there?'

'Excuse me?'

'That rather large bulge under your jumper! I know, I know - I'm one to talk, eh?' He gestured towards his own rather large bulge and chuckled. 'Seriously, mate, you know I'd never have joked about shagging your sister if I'd known she was carrying cargo.'

Emma turned to face me at a frighteningly low speed. Her voice came, low and quiet now. You know you're in trouble when a woman turns slowly and lowers her voice. 'You didn't even tell him I was pregnant? Your own housemate, who you see EVERY DAY, doesn't even know that I'm PREGNANT? You really don't give a SHIT – do you, Simon? God only knows why I'm surprised! You never visit, you never call, you NEVER ask how anyone else is doing because all you care about is yourSELF! All this time - ALL this BLOODY TIME I've spent trying to convince Mum that you're NOT a lost cause, trying to convince Dad that the only reason you distance yourself from us is because you find it HARD to show your FEELINGS – and all along, I should've realised – you don't have any feelings! You're just a SELFISH PRICK!' She turned to glower at Jay; I hoped maybe it was his turn to go under the grill. 'And I suppose YOU don't know anything about Max either? My SON – HIS nephew?' She was pointing at me again but shouting at Jay this time. 'WELL?'

'Erm, no ma'am.' Jay sensed immediately that he'd poured petrol on the fire and tried to retract his words. 'I mean, no, of course – he's definitely mentioned him once or twice… Yeah, Max. Little Maxy. He loves that little guy.' She was breathing so hard I thought she might take off. Jay continued: 'It's just- we don't- I mean- that's not the kind of stuff me and him talk about.' He was trying to save me, which was more than I'd tried to do. She didn't say another word after that. Jay and I stood still at the top of the stairs as the sound of her shoes clunked down the metal steps. The door slammed shut. We stood quietly for a moment, until Jay started grinning.

'What are you bloody smiling about?'

'Wow. I never could resist a fiery woman.'

I'd love to say that Emma's outburst really made me take a long hard look at myself. Made me put Simon under the microscope. Made me realise that I needed to appreciate my family and bla bla bla - whatever else a Jeremy-Kyle-style-counsellor would say. Well, it didn't. What it did, was add to my ever-growing cons list:

Con: Family members who are privy to my home address.

…and send me into town on a busy Bank Holiday Sunday.

Con: £12 for a replacement piggybank.

After such an eventful Saturday, Jay and I spent most of Sunday drinking heavily and playing computer games (for a change). My subsequent hangover prevented me from concentrating on school-work when it came to Bank Holiday Monday, so I neglected planning the next day's lessons and chose to sleep instead. Thus, on Tuesday morning, I had to resort to every teacher's fallback plan: tests. Tests are great in many ways: no planning required; seeing the fear in children's eyes when they enter the room and you make the announcement; and enjoying 60 minutes of total silence while the little morons scribble away. Unfortunately, every test comes with a massive downside: marking. Thirty kids writing non-stop for 60 minutes creates a lot of marking. And if you call it a 'test', your Head of Department will check to see that the work produced has been properly assessed. So, I spent Wednesday and Thursday paying the inevitable price for my enjoyable start to the week.

By Friday morning, I was ready to give the classes back their grades: 11XP (Excessive Pricks) were up first. 'So, in front of you on your desk, you will find the results of your most recent mock exam. I'll give you a heads-up: it is not good news. Especially considering that we are now thirteen days from the real exam itself. Remember, in this class most of you probably have the predicted grade of D; therefore, you are hoping to see a D or higher on your paper. I'll give you another heads-up: that is not what most of you will find.' I gave them a few minutes to locate and absorb their abysmal grades before even attempting to move on with the lesson. In the meantime, Charlie Weston's hand ambled into the air.

'Sir, I'm reyt confused.'

That makes a change. 'What seems to be the problem, Charlie?'

'I got an F.'

'Yes, indeed you did.'

'So…is that good then?' he asked. The poor dimwit actually seemed to be genuine.

What do you think, Charlie, since F stands for FAIL? Since F stands for absolute FIASCO? Since F stands for you really FUCKED that up, didn't you, you little cretin? 'Well, that depends.' I lied. 'What's your predicted grade?'

'My what?'

'Your predicted grade: the grade you're supposed to try and aim for in your English GCSE.'

'Oh. Erm…' he looked in the front of his book, where I'd told the class to write such information at the start of the year. It was their responsibility to know them, not mine. 'It's a D, sir.'

'Well, then there's your answer.'

'Yesssss! Get in!' he shouted, punching one fist in the air. I stared at him for a moment, confused by his celebration. Does this kid actually want to fail? 'I'm above my target…aren't I?' I watched as the cogs in his head began to whir and his face fell into puzzlement. 'Wait a minute. Sir, does F come before or after D in the alphabet?'

And people say teachers have it easy.

My life had been April-less for almost a month and I was beginning to notice the side effects of being forced into detox. She'd been vague concerning the details of her holiday but I felt safe to assume that she had returned after nearly four weeks. Opting not to dwell on the fact that she hadn't been in touch with me since getting back, I headed to Heart & Sole after school on Friday; due to my boring 48 hours of marking, Jay and I missed our usual Thursday slot. Having tried all the chip shops in our local area, I had to admit that April was right: Heart & Sole genuinely did supply the best in the city. That made for an excellent excuse.

When I entered, the familiar portly lady was serving behind the counter, whilst a bearded man attended the fryer. She greeted me with a friendly smile but not necessarily one of recognition. 'What are you havin', duck?'

'Two large fish and chips. Salt and vinegar on both. One without peas. One large curry sauce. One large battered sausage. And six chicken nuggets.'

'Any drinks w' that?'

'No, thanks. Erm, I was just wondering…is April in?'

'£16.45 please, love. Yeah, she's upstairs. Did you want me to call her down?'

'Oh, no. Don't worry about that – I need to get this stuff home anyway.' I handed over a twenty-pound note. 'Did she have a nice holiday by the way?'

'Sorry?'

'April – she's been away with her family. Do you know whether she had a good time?' I repeated.

The woman looked confused and shook her head. 'I don't know what yer talkin' about, duck.'

'Oh, sorry. I thought you'd know – with her living upstairs and everything. She's been away, abroad, with her mum, her dad and her sister, Hannah. I've been meaning to track her down to ask her about it. She didn't mention exactly where they were going.'

'Well, considering the fact that I'm her mum,' she nodded over to the bearded man, 'and that's her dad, I think we would know if she'd been on a family holiday. I'm afraid the only time off we get in this job is Christmas bleedin' day! Enjoy your dinner, love. Next please?'

My anger demanded attention. Not only had April outright lied to me, but now I'd embarrassed myself in front of her mum and dad. Why hadn't April introduced the chubby woman downstairs as being her mum? She'd been working downstairs while I'd been there enough bloody times! In fact, why hadn't the woman introduced herself as April's mum when I'd gone round for dinner? Maybe she was just as nutty as April; it couldn't be genetic, what with April being adopted, but perhaps something about the way she'd been raised? On the drive home, I tried to calm myself down; I wouldn't give the green-hair- no, the yellow-haired bitch the satisfaction of unsettling me again. I should have known she couldn't be trusted when she walked out of that coffee shop without paying. Well, at least now I knew she was a liar, I was better off without her.

I blamed April's mysterious behaviour for the fact that I couldn't get to sleep that night, although it could have been the mountain of deep-fried food trying to squidge its way through my system. I couldn't stop running through all the reasons why she might lie to me about going away. Potential reason number one: she'd had a boyfriend all along, and he'd whisked away for a romantic break. Potential reason number two: she couldn't stand to spend any more time with me and had therefore faked a trip in order to sever our contact. Potential reason number three: she was a pathological liar who lived in a fantasy world. None of the reasons were particularly pleasing, so it was hard to decide which one I thought most likely to be the answer. By 2am, I gave up hope of sleeping, dressed and walked determinedly towards Heart & Sole. Whatever was hiding behind her lies, I needed to know. If only to stop this neuroticism she seemed to have induced.

When I arrived, the lights on the ground floor were off and the door was locked. However, there were lights on in April's living room and I could see the luminous flickering of the T.V. against the multi-coloured walls. I stared up at her window impotently. I didn't want to call the business line, just in case the calls diverted to her parents' house whenever the chip shop was closed. April, you daft hippy, this is why you need a bloody mobile phone. I'd never attempted the old-fashioned method of throwing stones at a window before, but it seemed like my best option. I gathered together a handful of small pebbles – well, pieces of grit to be more accurate; she'd wound me up but I didn't want to shatter the thing. Gently, I began flinging the grit up in the direction of the living room. It was barely making a sound against the glass but April's silhouette was up and looking out of the window in an instant. Considering it was the middle of the night, she was surprisingly alert. I waved at her from the pavement and pointed towards the front door. I couldn't see her face but she ran from sight and quickly appeared downstairs, turning on the lights as she went. I was used to being taken aback by April's outfits, but this one was particularly unusual. Despite the fact that it was 2:30am, she was wearing a silver, sequin-covered dress with bright green tights and high heels. Around her neck lay a pair of big, white headphones.

'Simon!' She opened the door, screamed and jumped on me, kissing the area around my mouth keenly. She was out of breath and I tried not to think what, or whom, I might have interrupted her from.

I pushed her away, holding her at arms' length, resisting. 'April, what are you playing at?'

'What d'yer mean? I'm happy to see you, obviously!' she beamed. 'Simon, what's wrong?'

'Did you have a good time?' She's got a boyfriend. It all adds up.

'What?'

'I said, did you have a good time?' That'll be why she's all dressed up now: she's just got back from a night out with him. Maybe she did double-book me that first night we had dinner after all. Maybe he got the first sitting.

'Simon, I honestly don't know what yer talkin' about! Can we go upstairs now? It's cold down 'ere. Mum always turns the heatin' off in summer, whether it's actually warm enough or not! No bother though – I'm sure we can think of something to do to warm ourselves up…' She turned to move upstairs but I stopped her. Stay strong, Simon. Stay strong.

'Last time I called you, you told me not to call again until you got back from your family holiday. You said you'd call me when you landed. In fact, you told me you'd call me on the flight home, which I remember because I had to remind you that a) you can't use your phone on a plane and b) you don't own a mobile. So, I'll ask you again: did you, or did you not have a good time?'

'Oh – erm, yeah! My family holiday! Yeah, it was great! Mmm, really good fun.' She was a terrible liar. 'So, are you comin' in or what? I'm bloody freezin'!' I knew what was happening. I knew it, but I needed to hear it from her. So, I followed her upstairs.

'Aren't yer happy to see me?' she started wittering as we climbed the junk-ridden staircase. It was even messier than the last time I'd visited: empty pizza boxes and plastic bottles crunched under foot. 'Even if you are being mardy, I sure am happy to see you. I was thinkin' about you the other day, actually. I saw this documentary about giraffes and it made me think about how I told you all about Shorty on the Rooftop Day. That was a really good day.' As we reached the living room, I noticed that all the furniture had been pushed back against the walls. In the centre of the room, spread out across the carpet, April had placed the purple throw that usually lived on the sofa. On the T.V., a music channel projected out images of celebrities prancing around on beaches wearing tiny bikinis but the sound had been muted. 'I bet you're wondering what I'm doin' in here?' she asked, smiling inanely. She grabbed the white headphones from around her neck and held them in the air. 'SILENT DISCO!'

I stared at her for a moment. Was it intentional, the way she managed to change the subject so ridiculously, that I always forgot why I'd come in the first place? Still, I had to ask. I couldn't stop myself. 'Silent disco?'

'Yeah!' she grinned. 'I've seen them on T.V., yer know, like at festivals and that, but I've never been to one. Never! So, tonight, I thought: why not? Ok, what you do is you put some music on, but you're not allowed to have the volume on at all, obviously, because it's a silent disco. Now, when I've seen them on T.V., the people are always wearin' headphones. I'm not sure exactly what the headphones are for, but I'm guessin' it's to make it even more silent? I don't know. Anyway, so you put your silent music on, and then you put your headphones on, and then you clear a dance-space,' she gestured to the purple throw on the floor, 'and dance! It's great fun, honestly. Do you want me to grab yer some headphones, so you can join in?'

My thoughts ran riot. What is actually, seriously wrong with this girl? Perhaps she doesn't have a boyfriend after all; would anyone be crazy enough to go out with her? If she doesn't have a boyfriend, why did she lie about her holiday? And should I tell her she's totally got the wrong end of the stick when it comes to what a silent disco actually is? In the end, I decided not to question her or even to correct her. I simply accepted the headphones and danced, like a total plonker, to imaginary music. Since I wasn't going to be around much longer, did it really matter if she did have a boyfriend? As long as we used condoms, I figured I was safe.

The next morning, I woke up in April's bed. Her bedroom was more feminine than the rest of her flat, adorned with pink pillows, cuddly toys from her childhood and a patchwork quilt that her mum had hand-stitched. On her bedside table stood a green lamp with tassels dangling from the shade and a pile of books ranging from the usual trashy chick-lit, to historical non-fiction and fact books about animals. On my side of the room was a chest of drawers that housed several candles and her expansive jewellery collection. I could hear April snoring lightly from underneath the duvet. Not wanting to be the kind of sap who sits there watching a girl sleep, I prodded her shoulder until she opened her mossy green eyes. 'Hmmmm. What time is it?' she murmured.

I rolled over to look at my phone, only to see the voicemail icon flashing. 'Eurgh.'

'What's wrong?'

'Oh, nothing - just a voicemail from my sister.' April moved slowly from the bed, fumbled around on the floor for a vaguely dry towel and headed for the shower, while I braced myself for another onslaught of hormone-induced slander. I dialled for voicemail.

'Simon? It's Emma. I tried the house phone but it's still broken. It really is about time you had that fixed. Anyway, I'm sorry I haven't called until now, but I've been playing last weekend over and over in my head and I feel dreadful about the way we left things. I suppose I can be a bit of pain sometimes, always going on about baby showers and bottles; perhaps I forget how boring all that stuff is for people who don't yet have families of their own. So, I wanted to apologise – for that, and for screaming at your poor housemate – the big fellow. Gracious, he must think I'm such a dragon. Will you please tell him how sorry I am? Also, I wanted to talk to you about those little notes you had stored in that moneybox, which I still owe you for, by the way. I, erm, well I don't really understand what all those little complaints you'd written down were about and I probably should have asked before I- well, before I shouted at you. So, call me. Please. I'm worried about you.' As Emma's message ended, April appeared in the doorway with white, bubbled suds still covering her hair and body. A look of concern owned her face.

'Come back for more already?' I asked in my best seductive voice, peeling the duvet back and motioning for her to join me.

'No, actually,' she began. 'I was just thinking about all that stuff with yer sister. Like, those things you said up on that rooftop at the Arts' Tower. I don't want to push the subject, honestly – I just can't help but wonder why you seem to hate yer family so much, Simon.'

'And you had to race out of the shower, mid-wash, just to ask me that?' I teased.

'Well, some things are just more important than hygiene.' She sat down on the end of the bed, far enough away from me to send clear I'm-not-here-for-funny-business;-I'm-here-for-a-serious-talk signals. Water hurried down her torso in streams and bled into the bed-sheets. She was clearly intent on staying there until I produced a sufficient answer. Even Jay had never asked for an explanation regarding my detachment from my family and it annoyed me that April felt herself worthy of demanding such a thing. However, since she embodied the closest thing I had to a normal relationship, and had admittedly proven to be non-judgemental in the past, maybe it was time to actually talk about what happened.

'It was a long time ago – back in 2000. The 4th of May. Something happened and, well, I suppose things haven't been the same since. It's hard to believe it was that long ago because I can still remember it so, so clearly. I was in my final year of high school, revising hard for my GCSEs, you know, so that maybe I could try to live up to the ridiculously high standards Emma had set with her results. Anyway, I'd probably been pushing myself a bit hard, staying up until all hours to cram in as much information as possible. I was sitting in a History lesson that morning, re-visiting the key aspects of the Nazi-Soviet pact, when I started to feel all queasy. My teacher sent me to see the school nurse, who agreed that I could go home, but she couldn't get hold of my mum. Mum was supposed to be at home that day. She used to volunteer at the local Oxfam shop two or three days a week, what with Dad earning a small fortune, but that was supposed to be one of her days off. After an hour of Mum's phone going straight to voicemail, the school got through to my dad who left work to come and pick me up. Our house was in a little village a couple of miles from the school, so the drive didn't take long. Since he needed to get back to work, Dad just dropped me off outside our house for me to let myself in. Mum's car was missing but the front door was unlocked. It turned out she hid her car in the garage on such special occasions, to avoid neighbours dropping in unannounced. So, I opened the front door and-' I paused, unsure whether I wanted to continue. April offered me a drink, which I accepted. She tottered off to the kitchen, wrapping her humungous blue dressing gown around her damp, soapy body. When she returned, she carried a cup of hot coffee in one hand and a bottle of 10-year-old whisky in the other.

'I didn't know which kinda drink yer'd want,' she said, looking a little embarrassed at her selection. I agreed that the offerings were perfect and mixed the two together in the elephant mug I drank from whenever I visited. April had bought the mug from a charity shop because she loved the way the elephant's trunk curled around to form its handle. According to the rulebook of April Barnes, crockery shouldn't match; as such, her kitchen cupboards boasted a large selection of colourful (and somewhat questionable) bric-a-brac. 'So, you were sayin'?' April prompted me gently. With a little Dutch courage warming its way down my throat, I resumed.

'Yeah, so, I let myself into the house and went through the hallway into the kitchen. Mum and Dad's house is stupidly huge – this old-fashioned country cottage with red brick walls on the inside and wooden beams everywhere. Anyway, I was about to pour myself a glass of water and head straight to bed when I heard noises coming from upstairs. It was like a muffled banging sound and I thought I could hear someone in pain. I grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer – I'm not entirely sure what I thought I was going to do with it – and started creeping up the stairs. By the time I reached the top step, it was clear that the sounds were coming from Mum and Dad's bedroom. I remember thinking it was strange that I didn't even feel sick anymore; I guess that kind of adrenaline pumping around your body makes you forget about anything else. I stood at the door for a moment, listening to the scuffling noises and gripping the handle of the knife. If I could go back in time, I honestly don't know whether I'd still walk through that door. Given another chance, maybe I'd just go back downstairs, get my glass of water and head to bed. Maybe then things would've been different.'

'So, yer went in? What was inside?' April asked, literally sitting on the edge of her seat on the bed. My story-telling skills were obviously improving, although this, unfortunately, wasn't fiction.

'Well,' I continued, 'I pushed the door open quietly and stood at the entrance to their room. On the bed - on my dad's bed - were Mum and Uncle James. Uncle James is Dad's brother – younger by a few years. They didn't even see me at first. It wasn't like I was watching them – I mean, Christ, can you think of anything you'd want to see less than that? – but it felt as though I'd been paralysed. I wanted to shout at them to stop but I was made of stone. Couldn't move. Couldn't speak. I remember squinting, literally hoping that that the man before me, the man atop her, was actually my dad and that my feeling sick had somehow messed with my vision. It was Mum who saw me first. She screamed bloody murder and started grappling at the sheets, attempting to cover what was left of her modesty. Uncle James launched himself off the bed and grabbed for his boxers so quickly that he put them on the wrong way round. Mum just sat there wrapped in sheets. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Uncle James moved towards me. He was pretty fucking serious for a man parading round in his pants with an erection. I can still hear him now: 'Put the knife down, Simon. Just put the knife down and everything will be ok.' I'd forgotten I was even holding the thing. He kept saying it over and over again, advancing on me like a predator: slowly, quietly, low down to the ground. 'That's it mate. Just hand over the knife and we can talk about this.' He reached his right hand out, fingers stretching for mine. As he went to prise the knife from my hand, my arm jolted outwards – not towards him, you know, on purpose – I think I just wanted him not to touch me. I didn't mean to hurt him. Genuinely, April, I didn't.'

'What happened to him?' April's face had drained of all colour.

'It sliced his hand up pretty badly. One big slit running along the bottom of all four fingers. Apparently, the Doctor said he nearly lost two fingers altogether. I wish he had; that's the least the dickhead deserved, if you ask me. I want to be more than just a scar.'

'Christ. What did yer mum do?'

'After she stopped screaming, she told me to stay in the house and start cleaning the carpet while she drove him to A&E. She wrapped his hand up in a towel and gave me a big bottle of bleach. She told me to wash everything and to get myself in the shower as soon as I'd got all that I could out of the carpet. And she said she'd be back as quickly as she could. The next few hours are a blur. I remember scrubbing at the cream carpet of their bedroom, watching the soapy bubbles turn pink as they mixed with his blood. I sat there rubbing bleach back and forth on my hands and knees until my skin scorched and my eyes started to burn. I had to run to the bathroom to be sick. By the time she arrived home, I was sitting with my arms around my knees on the floor of their en-suite shower. I'm not sure how long I'd been there.'

April's breath came cautiously. She nodded for me to continue. 'I'd turned the water hotter than my skin could handle. Mum stood in the bathroom for a while, just looking at me through the steam in the room. After a while, she turned off the water and threw me a towel. She told me to get up and get myself to my room before Dad got home. She asked me what the hell I thought I was doing spying on her like that. She said that what happened between her and James was none of my business and that she would go and clean up the rest of the mess I'd made before I managed to upset anyone else.'

'Did y' tell yer dad? Or Emma?'

'No. Emma was away enjoying her first year of Uni and we barely saw her. She was too busy being a first class student: President of the Conservation Society, the Environmental Society, the Debate Club – she had enough on her plate.'

'And yer dad?'

'I wanted to tell him; I wanted to tell him every fucking day. Mum told me it would destroy him. Asked me whether I was ready to face the consequences of telling him – to watch my parents split up and have to sell the house, all the while knowing that it was 'my fault'. She told me I was lucky Uncle James wasn't pressing charges for assault and that maybe he'd change his mind if I went and ratted them out to Dad.'

'Christ, Simon. I can't believe she actually said that. How old were yer?'

'Fifteen; I suppose that's why I listened. If I'd been a bit older, I guess I would've understood that it was her fault, not mine. But I was young and I didn't have anyone to talk to.'

'What about friends? People from school?'

'I've never found it that easy to make friends; I don't know why. There definitely wasn't anybody I felt close enough to at school, so I just kept it to myself. I had exams coming up at that time too; I locked myself in my room for every hour that I wasn't out at school and just focused on revision. I barely spoke to anyone for months. I ate in my room, watched T.V. in my room, and just generally shunned all contact with her and Dad. I felt so awkward around him, knowing what I knew; it was easier to just be invisible.'

'Didn't he wonder what was goin' on?'

'I heard him asking Mum a few times. She blamed it on me being a teenager: mood swings, hormones, the amount of school-work I had to do – basically anything to avoid actually telling him the truth. The longer it went on, the easier it became to just lock myself away. As I said, Emma had always been the favourite child – this way, I was just making it easier for her to retain her crown. Dad came to talk to me a few times, tried to ask me what was going on, but I shut him out. After a while, I guess he gave up trying. I lived in their house, but I was more like a piece of the furniture than a part of the family. I knew all I needed to do was make it to the time when University applications came around; then, I could get out of there forever. I've barely been back since. I get on with my life and let them get on with theirs.'

'But what about Emma? She didn't do anythin' wrong?'

'I guess. But it was hard enough as it was before, you know, growing up around someone your parents have placed on a pedestal. There was never any room for me up there. After the thing with Mum and Uncle James...I don't know. The distance between Emma and I just seemed insurmountable. I suppose I wished it had been her who'd walked in on them instead of me. Her who would destroy the perfect family if she told. Her who Mum would look at with regret from that day forward. But, instead, that privilege was left to me.'

April nodded slowly, letting my candid words sink in. 'Simon, I totally, totally get it if you don't wanna answer this but…what happened to James?'

'He didn't really visit after that. Him and Dad had never been particularly close, so it wasn't like it was a big change. He only lived about half an hour away all through mine and Emma's childhood, but Dad only saw him a couple of times a year. He was this big, snazzy business guy – bit of an entrepreneur – always busy with work stuff. I guess he arranged his visits to our house around Dad's working hours – and school hours, obviously. He moved abroad not long after our little altercation, and he never regained full use of his right hand. Once he was settled in Portugal, he ended up founding some company that make hand-held products specifically designed for people with mobility issues from nerve damage. Typical fucking James: even managed to turn that situation to his advantage. I haven't really seen him since that day. He came over one Christmas, about a year or so after everything happened, but even the sound of his voice from downstairs made me want to vomit, telling Mum she looked beautiful - right in front of Dad! Can you believe it? I didn't know what else to do other than refuse to leave my bedroom. Well, it was either that or risk stabbing him for real. Dad brought my Christmas dinner up to me on a tray. He wasn't even angry; it was as though he pitied me. That was the worst part – he pitied me, when really it should have been the other way around.'

I realised I'd been talking non-stop for what felt like forever. April sat, dumbfounded, perched on the end of the bed. I'd hoped that when I eventually told someone, let out all of the things I'd kept in for so long, that some magical weight would lift off my shoulders and I would feel refreshed, rejuvenated – maybe even happy again. Unfortunately, I felt no such thing. Instead, I just had that sick, bile-rising sensation that I had come to associate with my family. April must have sensed that I didn't want to talk any more. She suggested that she cancel her Saturday lunchtime shift downstairs and ask her mum, Claire, to send up some fish and chips for us from downstairs. We spent the entire afternoon watching crap T.V. on her sofa – well, she was watching T.V. I was staring blankly at the screen, replaying the events of the 4th May in my head over and over again until the screen turned scarlet and all I could see was Uncle James's blood spilling out across a cream, fluffy carpet.

When I woke in April's bed the next morning, there was an empty space where her pale-skinned body usually lay. On her pillow was a note:

Couldn't sleep. Operation Bucket List starts…TODAY!

April x

With April absent, and last night's revelations still revolving around inside my mind, I was unable to find the energy to get out of bed. I rolled over and sank back into sleep.

'Wakey wakey sleepy head!' April shouted, re-entering her bedroom about an hour later. She opened the curtains and shook my torso hard until I signalled a response.

'What? I'm fucking sleeping. Leave me alone.'

'Sleeping's for losers!' she taunted, waving something white around in my face.

'What's that?'

'Look. Look closer.' She handed me a cylindrical cardboard cup illustrated with the green Starbucks logo. I squinted back at her, conscious of the sunlight trying to pierce my eyeballs. 'Turn it around, Simon; look on the other side!' she squealed. I turned the cup to see the words

Anne Teak

scrawled across the side in fat, black marker pen. I glanced up at April, who was smiling so hard I thought her cheeks might crack. 'Well? I did it! I started my bucket list!' She scrambled over to the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out her list. 'Number two: Use a funny, fake name at Starbucks - tick! Now, let's get going on your bucket list!'

In the end, April suggested that we start my bucket list in order from most feared item to least feared item. Despite my reluctance, I had to admit that her explanation was pretty convincing. The way April saw it, I was working to a much tighter deadline than she was, and I therefore needed to make sure that all the important items were ticked off as soon as possible. If I left difficult items until the end of the year, one of two things would happen. One: I would use those things as an excuse not to go through with my plan. Two: I would die unhappy, having not completed all the things I wanted to achieve before death. So, I agreed. Unfortunately for me, April could also sense that the item I wanted to approach least was the final one:

8. Tell Dad the truth.

Thus, she insisted that we tackle that one first. I argued that I had actually already technically achieved another of my goals through meeting her:

2. Make some new friends.

She argued that 'friends', plural, could not be crossed off using her as evidence alone. However, if I made one more new friend, she would allow it. Instead, we both agreed that I could use meeting her to cross off the very first item instead:

1. Have sex with a ridiculously hot girl.

And we crossed it off right there and then. My bucket list challenge was officially underway.

For the first time possibly ever, that week at school flew by and the weekend was looming before I knew it. April had scheduled Saturday 18th as the day we would cross off number 8 on my bucket list. Let's just say that I wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect. April arrived at my flat at 8:30am on Saturday morning; as penance for her shift-cancellation the weekend before, her mum had insisted April would work both the Saturday evening, Sunday lunch and Sunday evening shifts of the following week. April's parents were in pretty much sole control of her shifts, since they allowed her to live in the flat above the chip shop rent-free. For the last few years, she had worked a few shifts a week downstairs and used her wages to pay for food and bills. Her parents were happy to cover her rent, as they were keen for April to live alone and to have her independence. I did mention that she would have full independence if she got a proper, full-time job and moved out of her parents' flat, but the observation wasn't exactly well received. Regardless, April needed to be back in Sheffield to start work at 5:30pm, so we had to get to my mum and dad's country cottage and back within the same day. It was a two-hour drive across the Pennines and we were set to arrive well before lunchtime.

As we belted up and left the car park, I asked April whether she wanted to split the driving. She wasn't insured on my Corsa, but I didn't exactly care if it ended up on a scrap heap somewhere. 'So, we could do an hour each on the way there and an hour each on the way back? Or maybe I could drive there and you drive back?'

'I can't, Simon. I don't know how to drive.'

'Oh, right. I see. Didn't you ever have lessons?'

'Never saw the point, really. Plus, I wasn't very well when I was 17 – yer know, when everyone else started learnin' to drive.' She paused for a moment. I started to realise how frequently April seemed to have been unwell when she was younger. I was wondering how I could approach the subject of asking whether she'd been born with some kind of horrible disease when she flurried on. 'Taking the bus is waaaaaaay better than driving a car anyway. You see the FUNNIEST things on the bus, Simon; yer wouldn't believe it, honestly. So, this one time, I got on t' bus fer work – yer know, when I was at the Wildlife Park, and there was this man wrapped up in a sleepin' bag and he was actually full on, totally, completely asleep! On the bus! He was still lyin' there on the back seat when I got off at my stop. I laughed all the way into work that day. And, another time when I got on – this was on the way home from work I think – there was this guy sittin' near the front and the only free seat on the whole bus was next to him, so I went to sit down next to him and he goes: 'Yer can't sit there, love. Me imaginary friend, Norman, is sitting there.' Can you believe it? I had to stand up for the WHOLE journey! He wasn't even jokin', I swear. He kept patting Norman's legs and tellin' him they were goin' to be home soon.' I'd pretty much zoned out into that vacant, happy place I went to whenever April was telling her weird stories, but she continued regardless. 'And, this other time, a woman – I know, it's usually men who are the weirdos on the bus – but this time it was a woman who was wearin' this posh business suit and everythin'. What she did was she opened her briefcase that she was carryin' and she said, out loud, right into the briefcase: 'Got enough air in there?' She was, like, peerin' inside it and everythin' and then she nodded and closed it again. It was SO scary! What the bloody hell did she have in there? Well, I didn't need to even ask because next, she took out this pineapple and she spo-' April talked about the strange behaviour of fellow bus passengers for twenty more minutes. After that, she talked for fifteen minutes about eagles and then for another half an hour about why it's important to try and appreciate all different types of music (including the band The Eagles – that was the kind of tenuous link that hijacked her lines of thought). She functioned as a sort of conversational tour-guide, whizzing me through various topics, stopping and signposting important pieces of information, such as the fact that the eyesight of most eagles is 3.6 times more accurate than a human with 20/20 vision. Or that her favourite song was Go Your Own Way by Fleetwood Mac because when she was growing up, it made her feel as though it was ok to be different. I thought that title summed up April's personality perfectly.

When we were just over half an hour from our destination, the familiar onset of parental-induced nausea took over. Although I'd barely had chance to participate in the conversations April had been having throughout the journey so far, she still seemed to sense my quietness. As usual, nonetheless, she knew exactly how to take my mind off it. 'Simon, we are now going to play a game!' she announced, clapping her hands together excitedly. 'Right, what happens is that I'm going to ask you four questions and you have to answer each question with just three single words. Ok?'

I wasn't really one for games but I welcomed the distraction. 'Yep, I'm ready.'

'Great start! First, I want you to imagine your favourite animal. It might be a domestic animal or a wild one – it doesn't matter. Do not tell me what the animal is. I want you to describe that animal in three words. I'll give you a moment to think and then you need to give me three, individual words to describe it. Ready? Go!'

Ok…an animal I like. Well, I'm not a huge fan of animals but I guess dogs aren't too bad. Although, if I say dogs, that'll probably make me sound really boring. I bet everyone picks a dog. No, I need to pick something unusual. And manly. What's the manliest animal? A dragon. Yes, very macho. Ok, so dragons are: big, scaly, fire-breathing, ferocious, angry, frightening, powerful, dangerous…

'Moment's up! What are your three words?' April interjected.

'Big, angry and dangerous.'

'Can I use this pen?' She picked a biro off the floor of the car and started giggling as she scribbled my three words down on the back of her hand.

'What's so funny?' I asked.

'I can't tell you yet! Right, next question: I want you to imagine your favourite colour. Again, don't tell me what it is. Exactly as before, I want you to describe that colour in three words. Ready? Go!'

My favourite colour's blue. Dark blue. It's a pretty miserable colour, hence my appreciation of it. It's quite cold. Depressing. Sad. Lonely, I guess - if colours can be lonely.

'Time's up! Three words please!'

'Lonely, sad and cold.'

'Aww, Simon!'

'What?'

'Nothing. I'll explain in a minute. Question three: picture yourself in a jungle. There are trees everywhere and you can hear animals growling in the distance. You are alone. As you trek through the jungle, you can feel the slippery ground under your feet. Up above, all you can see is the sun in the wide, open sky. Three words to describe how you feel…off you go!

I'm obviously supposed to feel a bit scared but I won't say that. Are people supposed to find experiences like that exciting? Emma did some sort of jungle shit on her gap year – she came back from that year using words like 'invigorated' and 'seeing the world in a different light'. Fucking spoilt brat.

'Right, what are they?' April asked.

'Erm, I'd rather not answer that one. Can we skip to the next one?'

'Hmmm, very interesting… Very interesting indeed.' April was still noting down everything I said on the back of her hand. 'Ok, Mr Bramwell, it's time for your final question. I want you to picture yourself waking up in a white room. There is nothing in the room – no furniture, no pictures, no sound, no other people – nothing but white. Blank. You can't see any doors or any windows. You don't know how you got there and you can't see how you're going to be able to get out. How do you feel? Three words – fire away!'

I didn't need thinking time for this one. 'Peaceful, calm and free.'

April paused for a moment, assessing my answers before adding them to the list. 'Free? Even though you're trapped in a room all alone?'

'Yeah – if there are no doors and no windows, it means no-one else can get in. So, I'd be free from everyone else. All their hassle.' She lowered her head and sank down into her chair. I waited for her analysis of my answers but she just sat there staring into her lap. Have I upset her? How? God, women are bloody impossible. 'Anyway, what was all that about?' I urged.

'Ok,' she began quietly. 'Question one about the animal is actually supposed to tell you how you see yourself. You answered: big, angry and dangerous. Ok, you are six-foot-three, but other than that I think you have a rather warped view of yourself!' She was giggling again now. I didn't like people laughing at me.

'Alright, get a move on. What's number two?'

'Oooooh, calm down you angry, dangerous man you! Ok, ok, I'll be serious. Number two, the colour one, is supposed to explain how other people see you. You answered: lonely, sad and cold – bless you! I don't think you're any of those things either, Simon. I think you're pretty ace.' She was grinning over at me. She stuck her fingers in the sides of my mouth and pulled my lips into a smile as wide as hers. 'Look! How could anyone think you were sad? As for number three... The jungle trek question signifies your feelings about sex. You, Mr Bramwell, chose not to answer. Then again, we already knew you were a prude, so can't say I'm surprised!' I opened my mouth to object but reassured myself that she was only joking. I'd shagged her enough times for her to realise I wasn't a prude, even if I wasn't used to girls wandering around naked on a first date. She moved on to the final piece of analysis: 'Finally, I asked how you'd feel in the blank, white room. That one indicates your feelings towards dying.' She stared at the writing on her hand.

'What did I say for that one again?'

Silence.

' April?'

'Peaceful, calm and free,' she answered. Well, at least April's childish game offered me something useful: confirmation that I'd officially made the right plans for New Year's Eve.

We arrived on the outskirts of Mum and Dad's village just after 11am. Situated in the centre, their huge country cottage rested peacefully amongst a patchwork of green and yellow fields. The windy roads were so narrow that two cars couldn't pass each other without one stopping and pulling into the hedge. Opposite their house was the primary school that Emma and I both attended as youngsters. With fewer than 50 children in the entire institution, there were only two classes: the 'Infants' and the 'Juniors'. The Infants ranged from those in Reception to Year 1; Years 2-6 were taught in the Juniors. I pointed the school out to April, but she was engrossed in her own thoughts and didn't seem to be paying much attention.

Mum and Dad bought the cottage for around £80,000 back in the 1980s and had transformed it (via two extensions and a garden re-sculpture) into their dream house. It had four double bedrooms, three bathrooms, an open-plan kitchen, a breakfast room, a dining room, a study and two lounges. One lounge housed comfortable sofas, a huge sheepskin rug and Sky T.V.: this lounge was for 'everyday use'. The other lounge, commonly known as the 'Best Lounge', was a place we were not permitted to enter as children. Inside, pristine white sofas boasted smooth, silk cushions of floral patterns. Every available polished-oak surface presented an array of delicate, crystal ornaments. One of Mum's favourite ornaments featured a man and woman dancing. The man's right hand was raised in the air, holding the woman's hand and twirling her body in a circle off to his side. The figurine was made from glass but coated in a substance so 'precious', according to my mother, that it was not to be handled without wearing special gloves. I thought the whole thing was fucking ludicrous and had almost used my bare hands (Heaven forbid) to throw it against the wall on several occasions. At the very end of the Best Lounge stood an antique writing desk, complete with quills and pot of ink (a present from pretentious Henry, of course). Mum used the desk to write her 'Thank You' letters. No, she had not realised that 'Thank You' letters had become obsolete since the introduction of the internet and the far superior 'e-mail'. All over the walls hung gentle watercolours of muted greens and pieces of rustic artwork from Vietnam, Thailand and India; Emma had brought these back as gifts from her post-university-but-pre-law-school gap year. It was the kind of house where guests were given a tour upon entry, where stilted silence settled for hours at a time and where forgetting to use a coaster was an all-out sin.

April and I pulled up outside and the sharp jolt of the brakes snapped her out of her trance. She surveyed the cottage open-mouthed. 'Simon, you didn't tell me you lived in a fucking mansion!' I steeled myself and smiled at April's profanities. Mum hated foul language; she said it was evidential of a substandard vocabulary. It would give me great pleasure for mum to hate April, so I planned to encourage such behaviour once we got inside.

Dad answered the door wearing jeans and a grey jumper with buttons at the neck. He looked tired. He looked confused. But he did not look like the kind of man who was about to learn his entire marriage was a sham. 'Goodness, Simon! What a pleasant surprise! Come in, please, come in. And I see you've brought us a visitor?'

'April,' she said, shaking his hand with too much nervous enthusiasm. 'Your house is bloody massive!' She was already following Dad through into the hallway. I wanted to get back in the car, drive away and never come back. I needed to get this over with. Quickly. Dad led April and I through into the Best Lounge; Mum hadn't made it downstairs in time to tell him that the Best Lounge was for guests only, and I wasn't technically a guest.

Within minutes, the four of us gathered, cups of tea in hands, on the white sofas amidst uneasy tension.

'So, to what do we owe this pleasure?' Mum asked.

'Anne, I think we both know why Simon is here, love,' Dad said.

I sincerely doubt that.

'Simon,' he continued, 'please don't be angry but Emma called us after she came to visit you. She mentioned that perhaps you're not in a very good place right now. Something about a moneybox? And keeping track of all the things that wind you up? It didn't sound too healthy, son. Why don't you tell us all about it? Tell us what's been going on, and how we can help you to get better.'

Fucking Emma! Of course she scuttled off back to Mum and Dad to tell on me. Maybe I should shed a bit of light on her in return – about how she basically had a nervous breakdown in my flat because it turns out that dearest darling Henry's not such a fucking hero after all.

'Robert, this is really more of a family conversation…don't you think?' Mum butted in, eyes focused on April. God forbid a visitor should be subjected to anything other than canapés and polite chit-chat about the weather.

I ignored Mum entirely and focused my eyes on Dad. I wouldn't let her stop me this time. 'No, Dad. Actually, the reason I'm here has nothing to do with that. And my private piggybank has nothing to do with Emma. I'm here because there's something I need to tell you. Something I should've told you a long time ago, but somebody convinced me not to.' Mum's face was taut and I could feel her eyes boring through my skull and out the other side. April squeezed my hand and circled her fingers inside my palm. 'Before I tell you, I just want you to know that I haven't told Emma, or anybody else, and there's nothing for you to be embarrassed about. If anyone should be embarrassed, it's certainly not you.'

'What are you talking about, Simon?' His face contorted with paternal concern.

'Mum-' My breath caught in my throat. Breathe, Simon. You can do this. He deserves to hear this. 'Mum had…' I focused all my energy on stopping my voice from shaking, '…an affair. She had an affair. With Uncle James. In fact, for all I know, they could still be having one.' Heavy silence invaded the room. April's fingers stopped circling and lay rigid in my hand. Dad's eyes moved downwards and settled on his slipper-clad feet. His hand came up to his forehead and he pinched the skin at the top of his brow between his thumb and forefinger.

'I'm so sorry I never told you. I found out when I was so young – I didn't know what to do. Mum convinced me that it was best to keep quiet but I- well, I didn't know how to- I should've-' I stopped there, unable to sufficiently articulate my guilt. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. I was beginning to wonder whether I'd actually said the words aloud when he stirred. His gaze lifted from the floor and over to his wife; I wasn't surprised to see that his eyes were dry. Robert Bramwell was a strong man - not the sort of man who would cry in front of his son. The tears would surely come later, when he was alone. He was looking Mum right in the Botoxed face.

That's it, Dad. You let her fucking have it. What if he hits her? Should I stop him?

Dad's hand moved over and settled on Mum's left leg, which he squeezed as he said: 'Oh love, why didn't you tell me he knew?'

Mum sighed. 'I suppose I thought it was for the best, Rob. I knew you didn't want to hear about my goings on; as we agreed, I kept all the details to myself.' She looked at me, fresh, new resentment burning in her eyes. 'I thought that if you knew about Simon finding out – well, I thought it might upset you even more. And you know I never intended to hurt you.'

'What the hell are you two talking about?' I barked. 'Dad, what's going on?'

'I'll go and put the kettle on,' Mum said. 'April, perhaps you should come with me? Leave these two to talk?' Mum's questions were rhetorical; she moved over to the door of the lounge and waited for April to follow her command.

'No. I'm staying here. Whatever Rob wants to say to Simon, he can say it in front of me,' she responded, with a kind of confidence few people were ever capable of mustering in the presence of my mother. 'Isn't that right, Simon?'

I nodded. Mum folded her arms; it was clear how deeply April's defiance riled her. 'Robert, darling, this sort of conversation most certainly is for family members only – don't you think?'

'That's funny,' April started, 'because it seems you're a bit confused about exactly where the boundaries lie when it comes to family members. Don't YOU think?' Mum glared at April, speechless, and left the room in silence. I'd never been so pleased to have April by my side as I was at that moment.

Dad nodded at us, signalling that he was ready to explain. 'Simon, I know about your mum and Uncle James. I've known for a long time – since a few months after it started, in fact. It's, erm, it's a very complicated situation. When you marry someone, you have to accept that you might not- well, you might not be able to give them everything they need. I had to accept that there came a certain stage in our marriage whereby I wasn't able to give your mum everything she needed. I know it must have come as a shock to you, and I honestly had no idea that you'd ever found out about your mother's other arrangement but-'

'Other arrangement? They weren't trading stock market tips, Dad; I walked in on them shagging on your fucking bed!' I shouted, shocked by his tranquil acceptance.

'That's enough, Simon!' His voice was severe now. 'They had an arrangement – a relationship, if you like – and a serious one at that. That relationship continues, on a casual basis, to this day. You see, after Emma was born, your mother and I drifted apart. She felt very isolated stuck at home caring for a baby all alone while I was out at work. Her body had changed; she felt very unattractive. Although she tried to tell me how unhappy she was, I was too God damn ignorant to accept it. All the poor woman needed was some reassurance that-' Mum re-entered the room, carrying a pot of freshly-brewed tea and a distinct lack of shame. I watched as she placed the floral tray down on the coffee table and returned to her seat. How could he know what he knew and still love this woman? 'I was just explaining to Simon, love, how you needed some reassurance after giving birth to Emma – someone to tell you how beautiful you still were and someone to appreciate you properly.' Mum nodded approvingly at the talking puppet she'd created but remained mute. 'James stepped in and provided what you needed, didn't he love? Well, at first, it was exactly what you needed. I know you won't be able to understand this, Simon, and at first I honestly didn't think I could get my head around it either but, well, as I said: it's complicated.'

'I honestly don't see what's complicated about it at all. You should have left her: simple as that. Emma and I could have stayed with you and I'm sure we'd have been just fine.'

'Well, things between your mother and James changed. You see, son, your mother fell pregnant. James bolted, of course. He's always been a high flyer in the business world but he's selfish and arrogant: he's no family man. He was only ever looking for a bit of fun – albeit in the wrong place – and he wasn't ready to take on the responsibility of a child.'

'Y- you have another kid?' I was looking at Mum now, furious that she could have kept something like this from Emma and I for so long. 'Well, where is this kid? Did it go to live with Uncle James?' Mum's chemically-enhanced face stayed rigid but tears began to drip reluctantly from her eyes. She looked at Dad, and he at her. There was something between them that I couldn't make sense of. 'Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?'

'Please, Simon – your language,' Mum scolded quietly.

'Oh I am sorry but I think there are rather more fucking important things to discuss here other than my fucking language! What the FUCK is going on? Where did this illegitimate child disappear off to?' April squeezed my hand tightly but I brushed her away. I wasn't looking for comfort; I was looking for answers. 'Does Emma know about any of this?'

'No, your sister doesn't know anything. About any of this mess.' Dad glanced over at his wife. 'Unless there's anything else you haven't told me?' Mum shook her head and looked down into her teacup. Christ, she really could play the wounded victim when she wanted to. Dad continued: 'I mean, we didn't expect to keep it from either of you for this long. Of all people, we expected Emma to twig – I mean, she's so bright,' Dad said, blinking back the water brimming in his eyes. 'It was so hard. We tried to treat you just the same as Emma but every single time we looked at you, all we saw…all we still see… I mean, God, you're the spitting image of him, Simon.'

'Of WHO?' And then it hit me. All at once. Not slowly and steadily, not seeping into my consciousness at a fair pace, so that I could take it in and begin to make sense of it. No. More like a punch to the stomach – the kind of punch that sucks all the breath out of your lungs and leaves fire burning in its place. Simon James Bramwell.

On the journey home, April hardly said a word. It was as though she had a sixth sense and could perceive exactly how I needed her to behave around me at any particular moment. She turned up the radio to an almost deafening volume and skipped to a different station every time a DJ started talking. Whether it was 1950's rock 'n' roll, some sappy boy-band or Classic FM, I didn't give a shit. As long as it was loud enough to drown out my own thoughts, it was fine by me.

Sunday 19th May

Number of beers consumed: 15

Number of voicemails from 'Home': 4

Number of hours slept: 2

Cons added to piggybank: 1 PRETTY MASSIVE ONE

Monday 20th May

Number of calls made to phone in sick for work: 1

Number of beers consumed: 7 (Annoyed – sleep took over drinking time)

Number of voicemails from 'Home': 2

Number of voicemails from Emma: 1

Number of hours slept: 7

Cons added to piggybank: 5

Tuesday 21st May

Number of calls made to phone in sick for work: 1

Number of beers consumed: 13

Number of voicemails from 'Home': 1

Cons added to piggybank: 9

On Tuesday night, I received a text message from Helen, my Head of Department, asking whether there was any chance I might be able to make it into work for Wednesday, since it was the last lesson all English teachers had with their Year 11 classes before they sat their GCSE exam on the 23rd. It didn't seem like too much to ask, so I stopped drinking at 2am like a good little boy.

On Wednesday morning, I limited myself to two breakfast whiskies (still on my best behaviour) and veered into the car park fifteen minutes late. Luckily for me, my tutor group had waited reasonably patiently for my arrival and hadn't alerted anyone else to my absence. I registered them and told them to bugger off to Period 1, while I prepared myself for 11 Excessive Pricks: my first and only actually important lesson of the day. None of the other classes were preparing for exams and therefore did not matter to me, or the school, until the end of the GCSE period.

Courtney Weston and her twin brother Charlie were the first to arrive. 'Nice tan, Courtney; how did you know orange was my favourite colour?'

'What?' Courtney asked. She looked nervous and was carrying a revision guide for what was undoubtedly the first time in her life. It was probably for the best that most of them would be nervous; their anxiety might attract attention away from the fact that I was clearly in no condition to be teaching.

Kyran appeared next, violently pushing a rather pudgy and red-faced student called George into my classroom. 'Come on fatso – get in yer lesson,' Kyran was taunting. 'Get in there, lard arse!'

'Kyran!' I slurred.

'Yes sir?'

'You shouldn't bully people for being fat…they clearly have enough on their plates!' I suppose I should've spotted that it was all going a bit wrong when he laughed, I laughed, and I openly received his appreciative fist bump. George looked at me with such disappointment you'd have thought I ate his last bloody KitKat. But unfortunately, I didn't stop there. The comments I'd usually keep inside my head kept lurching rebelliously from my mouth. It felt so good to allow the alcohol to melt away my brain-to-mouth filter.

Charlie: 'Sir, I think I made a mistake takin' English GCSE. There's too much borin' shit to learn.'

Me: 'Charlie, if you really want to know about mistakes, you should ask your parents.'

Kyran: 'I can't be arsed w' this, sir. It's all bollocks. Me dad reckons I don't need any GCSEs anyway; he hasn't got any and he's done just fine without 'em. He says all teachers are just pansies who tell yer that y' need good grades so they can look good and keep their jobs.'

Me: 'Kyran, you know your family tree? Just out of interest, is it shaped like a cactus?

Kyran: 'What? No. Why?'

Me: 'Because everyone on it is a prick.'

Mason: 'I don't get any of this, me. Which one wrote A Christmas Carol and which one wrote Roman & Juliet again?'

Me: 'It's RomEO and Juliet for a start.'

Mason: 'What is?'

Me: 'For Christ's sake. Were you, by any chance, conceived on a motorway, Mason?

Mason: 'What?'

Me: 'Nothing. I just heard that's where most accidents happen.'

Mine wasn't exactly the most productive revision session going on in Conifer High that day, but I can honestly say I've never enjoyed a lesson that much in my life.

Thankfully, Period 2 was one of my P.P.A. periods – in the teaching world, that stands for Planning, Preparation and Assessment. It's the three hours a week teachers are supposed to spend marking books, planning lessons, and conducting the general bullshit administrative tasks that they get stuck with. Today, my P.P.A. stood for Post-Pissed Apathy. Before sneaking in a quick nap at my desk, I decided to check my e-mails. Of the 97 I had received in my absence, only one was of any interest: a message from Reception reported that a parent named Cheryl Fenwick had called the school eager to arrange a meeting with me to discuss her daughter Morgan's progress. Oh she's eager all right – dirty little slut. I called her immediately and managed to catch her between a manicure and a facial peel. She was free to come in on Thursday after school, as she had a gap between appointments from 4 until 5:30pm. I told her it'd be my pleasure to fill her gap and hung up while she was still giggling. It genuinely wasn't until that point that April even entered my head (for which, I blame my choice of breakfast). I shut the blind that covered the window into my classroom and settled my head down on my desk for a nap before Period 3. If shagging Cheryl seemed like a bad idea when I'd sobered up, I'd ring and cancel the meeting. If it didn't, then what April didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

'Mr Bramwell! Excuse me, Mr Bramwell?'

In my sleep, I'd been dreaming of a small gnat, buzzing around my head and refusing to leave me alone.

'Mr Bramwell! Do you realise where you are?' The gnat sounded angry. I swatted it away with my hand.

'Ouch! For crying out loud. MR BRAMWELL! WAKE UP THIS INSTANT!' I opened my eyes to see Mr Greggan, one of the older and stuffier Deputy Heads employed by Mr Harding to ensure that he himself never actually had to leave his office in order to run the school. Within seconds, I was being marched to Mr Harding's office like an insubordinate child. The march came complete with an accompanying lecture from Mr Greggan: '…impossible to get good staff nowadays…wouldn't have stood for this kind of ineptitude, I can tell you…what on Earth you think you're doing…be lucky to end up with just a suspension…' He dumped me on a chair outside the Head's office and waddled off to annoy someone else. The chairs outside Mr Harding's office were made of black plastic and were purposefully hard and hostile, since anyone ordered to sit on them was considered unworthy of comfortable seating. The chairs were also positioned so that anyone occupying them could be seen by the Reception; this way, the office staff could keep an eye on the offenders and any visitors could see that this was a Head-teacher who liked to deal with his rule-breakers directly. If he hadn't been a total tool in every other way, I suppose it would've been a reasonably impressive strategy.

It took about fifteen minutes for him to come to the door – lazy bastard. I bet he wasn't even doing anything other than attempting to leave me squirming. Disappointingly for him, I was doing nothing of the sort. In fact, I struggled to keep my eyes open. I knew falling asleep again would hardly play in my favour, so I spent my time chomping the entire pack of breath mints I kept in my jacket pocket and winking over at the more attractive members of the office staff.

Finally, he announced himself by clearing his throat. I looked up from my tiny, plastic chair. Harding's bulging stomach was inches from my face and he was gesturing for me to enter his office. 'If you will, Mr Bramwell.' John Harding's office was decorated to reflect the kind of school he desired: neat, orderly and sterile. His large, grey desk housed only a black pen pot, his computer and a black paper tray filled with carefully stacked documents. I sat down on the small chair in front of his desk and wondered whether he'd consciously selected it to be several inches shorter than his large, leather seat, thus ensuring his ability to look down upon his perpetrator at all times. 'Mr Bramwell, I have heard some rather alarming reports about your behaviour in school today. Would you care to tell me what's been going on?'

'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, John.' I smiled and cocked my head to one side, stealing April's move. She employed it whenever she wished to dare you to do or say something and it always worked. Always.

'Well, let's start with Period 1 today. I hear that the lesson didn't exactly go well? And please, call me Mr Harding.'

Come on, dickhead. No euphemistic bullshit this time. At least have the balls to give me a proper bollocking. 'Again, you leave me nonplussed, John. I actually thought it was a rather outstanding lesson with Year 11.'

'I'll cut to the chase, Mr Bramwell. There have been reports from some the students in 11XP that you were behaving in a manner unbecoming of a teacher. Concerns were also raised about the potential odour of alcohol on your breath, although I must say that I cannot personally smell anything untoward at this moment.' He waited for me to respond but I said nothing. Considering my inebriated state, I thought it best to keep interactions to a minimum. After all, that's what lawyers were always advising their clients to do on those stupid police dramas Jay liked to watch. I had the right to remain silent. 'Anyway,' he continued, pretending that my lack of co-operation didn't bother him, 'whilst we get this matter cleared up, I am hereby suspending you from duty. I will escort you off the premises, and thence suggest you get yourself home and to bed. Since we break up for half-term on Friday, I do not expect to see you in this school until after the holidays. I will be in touch regarding the details of your reintegration, which shall commence after half-term. Do you have any questions?' I did not have any questions. I actually couldn't believe that my punishment for being pissed at school was to receive a longer holiday than everyone else. Did the other staff know that was all you had to do to get extra days off?

Harding and his bulging stomach walked me all the way down the stairs and out into the car park. As I left, he shook my hand as though we had just completed some kind of successful business transaction. I sat inside my car and stared at the row of birch trees that lined the concrete. It suddenly dawned on me that I now faced eleven days, maybe more, alone with my thoughts. And at that moment, inside my head was not a pleasant place to be.