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Happy Hippo’s mouth opens and shuts at speed as his sister tries to capture the marbles spinning about the old, red plastic tray. He’s working Henry the blue hippo’s mouth for all its worth, and the marbles dive in all directions, clattering against the sides. There are two remaining marbles, and his sister is concentrating hard, tongue between her lips. The pink hippo grabs them and she hoots with delight. The boy shrugs. Normally he’s a dab hand at this game and can trounce her, but today, she’s won fair and square. Her eyes sparkle in jubilation.

‘Want another game?’ she asks.

He shakes his head. ‘Later maybe.’

‘Sore loser,’ she says. She puffs out her cheeks like one of the hippos they’ve been playing with and waddles around the kitchen, arms held wide by her side. ‘I’m Happy Hippo.’

‘Yeah, you’re about the size of a hippo,’ he teases.

She blows a loud raspberry in response that makes them both snigger. She pulls another face and crosses her eyes before packing up the game and taking it upstairs. He reaches for the unfinished sandwich in front of him on the table.

‘You didn’t take any money out of the jar, did you?’ His mother appears, a crease developing between her eyes. ‘I won’t be angry.’

He shakes his head, chops full of bread and jam. There had been no butter again and the bread was dry, but when he complained, his mother replied, ‘Drier where there’s none,’ as she plonked it down in front of him.

He always eats whatever he is given. Some days they have half-decent food, usually after his father gets paid. Mum will treat him to something nice. He likes fish and chips, but recently they don’t even get fish, just chips: fat, crispy chips with lots of ketchup. He smacks his lips at the thought. He’d been really hungry today and wolfed down the first sandwich as soon as he got it before his sister had insisted on a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. They’d played football at school and he’d run about like crazy, chasing after the ball and eventually scoring. One day, he’ll become a top footballer and earn so much money he’ll never have to eat dry bread and strawberry jam again. And he’ll take his mum and sister to a mansion, far away from his father and his temper that is fast spiralling out of control.

Both he and his sister have taken to hiding in their bedrooms as soon as they hear their father’s key in the door. It is best to hide, especially when he’s been drinking, which he seems to be doing more and more often. His sister hadn’t been quick enough to race upstairs last time Dad’d come in, stinking of alcohol and with a mean look on his face.

The boy hates it when his father takes his rage out on his sister. She is so little and frail, but nevertheless, each time she falls foul of his mood, the boy jams his fingers in his ears to block out her shrieks, afraid to challenge the man that is supposed to care about them. He will save them when he gets older and bigger. He’ll become a footballer and take them far away.

That reminds him – he needs another plaster from the medicine cabinet. His blood blisters are really big now and the largest burst during the match, splattering warm blood into his sock and making his foot squelchy. His football boots are too small for him and press on his feet. He’d squeezed them on again today but he’ll be in danger of breaking his toes soon. There is no way he is going to be able to get new ones, not unless he steals some.

He’d considered asking his mother for a pair of second-hand boots from one of the numerous charity shops that are in the area, but now the emergency money has gone, that isn’t likely to happen. He’ll have to work out how to steal a pair.

‘I wouldn’t take the money,’ he says finally, wiping his finger around the plate, scooping up the last of the sticky strawberry jam.

His mother shakes her head. ‘Yeah. I know you wouldn’t. I had to ask though.’ Her words are carried on a breath of air that comes from deep inside and keeps escaping. Her head and shoulders drop. It’s like she’s deflating.

He sticks the finger in his mouth, sucks at it until the final sugary residue has gone. His mother doesn’t speak again. She stares out of the window onto the street, where two women are chatting animatedly while two small girls run around the lamp post, giggling wildly. He puts his plate in the sink. He’s still hungry but it’ll be pointless to ask for more food. If the money’s gone then his father must have taken it. His mother’s been saving that money for ages – a little each week.

He pads to the small box room that serves as his bedroom, and stares out of the window onto the street below. The two girls are now further along the road and still laughing. A little dog has joined them and they’re taking it in turns to throw a ball for it. It pirouettes for the ball to be thrown and darts after it, tail high. Suddenly he spots his father rounding the corner and striding down the road, scowling like he does when he’s had a bad day, and he’s immediately aware of how miserable and dark it feels in his world. Outside is freedom. Inside is a prison he can’t escape.

Outside is another world. As far away as the moon.