Wow, there had been one weird atmos between Mum and Dad at breakfast. Even Mouse had picked up on it, appearing from behind her book to study them, roll her eyes, and return to her make-believe world. Ruby couldn’t wait to get away; didn’t want them ruining her buoyant mood. She felt happier after her decent night’s sleep, and even though her parents were probably cooking up some fresh hell for her, she went to school feeling good because she couldn’t wait to see Harry again. Lying in bed together the night before, with no attempt at funny business, had been such a wonderful moment. She felt it was yet another step to their path of love. Every time she thought they couldn’t possibly get any closer, they did.

She pulled on her school clothes. In her hurry, she barely flinched in disgust at the scars at the top of her thighs as she pulled her thick black tights on. She almost skipped to the station.

But Harry didn’t get on the train.

---

When she hopped off at Charlton, every step she sent hopeful glances ahead, but never spied him. She hid around the corner to put her make-up on, the heavy eyeliner a mask behind which she felt safe enough to march into school alone. Shoulders artfully slouched, head at an angle carefully calculated to convey bored insolence to anyone who looked at her. Definitely not giving away any nerves.

She made her way to the lockers, passing easily through the crowds of pupils of varying ages who parted to let her through. She caught snatches of conversation, whispers on the air that floated to her and made her smirk.

‘… punched her lights out…’

‘… totally mental…’

‘… for no reason…’

Only the slightest flare of Ruby’s nostrils might have given away her disappointment when she rounded the corner to her locker and saw… no sign of Harry. He must be wagging school. Which meant things must be really bad at home for him.

Ruby didn’t even bother putting on a show of staying for her lessons. She did a one-eighty and walked straight back the way she’d come, pulling out her phone as she went.

---

Harry’s arms were burning with the weight of the shopping bags he was carrying. Any minute now his fingers were going to be cut off by the plastic handles of the bags; he could see the tips turning a weird purple-blue. He tottered straight past his mum, who was out for the count on the grubby sofa, sprawled like a drunk across a park bench. A little snore escaped. He threw a glance her way and clocked the drool glistening on her chin, but he didn’t slow.

Ow, ow, ow! Fingers!

He just managed to get to the kitchen in time, dumping the heavily laden bags on the floor then hopping around shaking his hands, trying to get blood flow back to his dangerously deprived digits. Once the pain subsided, he got to work.

Baked beans, tinned soups, a ton of Pot Noodles, a loaf of white bread, a couple of litres of milk. That was one bag of shopping emptied. Harry dived into the rest.

Biscuits, pop and crisps…

Frozen burgers, fish fingers, oven chips and stuff he could shove in the microwave.

Finally, it was all put away. Harry sighed, leaned against the counter in the tiny kitchen in which only one person could fit at a time, closed his eyes, and daydreamed. He loved to remember the first time he had seen Ruby, recognising something lost in the new girl that peeked out from behind the tough act. Before they had even spoken, he had felt drawn to her.

Thinking about seeing her for the first time had been his favourite memory, but now it had been supplanted by the previous night. He replayed looking down at her, her head on his chest, and his heart expanded until he pure might float, man. That soft, gentle smile that had tweaked the ends of her lips, it made him melt.

Imagining Ruby was Harry’s escape from his crappy life. His home was a council flat full of city clichés, from the often-broken lifts and stairwells that stank of urine to the drug dealers who lived next door and had a constant flow of visitors, day and night. He’d heard they had a crystal meth lab there, too, so he was permanently braced for an explosion if that went wrong, Breaking Bad-style.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes on reality again. He needed to do the washing-up.

The flat was cramped, and not the cleanest, because his mum didn’t do housework. She couldn’t, not in her state. It was Harry who kept it all together, looking after his two kid brothers, and clearing up after his mum when she couldn’t make it to the loo in time, or holding her when she got the crazy shakes.

‘That you, son?’ she called now.

His heart sank. He could hear the slur of her voice, the way her lips struggled and slid over the ‘s’. Too much effort in her state. He glanced at the clock. It was only 9.30 a.m.; it was going to be a long day.

‘Son? Come here.’

Harry turned and crept from the flat, clamping down on his lip to distract from the prickling threat of tears. Closed the door slowly, silently, then ran, his guilt lending him wings so that he could get far, far away. He couldn’t cope with looking after his mum. Not right now. The thought of having to get a damp cloth to wipe the drool from her chin, or clean up the vomit that would almost inevitably follow… He pumped his arms harder, drove his legs faster, sent the pushers and bikers scattering around him.

He only slowed when Ruby called his mobile.