Free The Chaos by Rachel Ward Page B

cooked something yourself, you really appreciate it.
    It tickles me as well, pottering around in the kitchen, keeping things straight, cooking for three blokes. I hate all that stuff, women staying at home and looking after men. It’s what my mum’s done all her life. Skivvying for other people. Running round, making everything perfect; clean house, clean clothes, dinner on the table. It makes me sick. Now I’m doing the same, but it’s different. We’re a different sort of family. The sort where half the time everyone else is too wasted to eat. The sort where you don’t ask where the food came from. The sort where people vomit in the yard and don’t even mention it.
    But it’s also the sort of family where no one judges you, where no one’s trying to get into your knickers, where, despite it all, you feel safe. I feel safer in this squat in Giles Street than I have for years.
    When I’m not cooking, or clearing up, I’m drawing. One day I find some old wallpaper and start doodling. Vinny sees me.
    ‘These are amazing, man,’ he says, and he brings me some tape, so I can stick them up on my wall. I draw all sorts – things from real life, things I remember. I catch Vinny and the boys all asleep one day, lying about in the lounge downstairs, and I draw them. I think they’ll like it, and they do. They put it up on the wall. But it makes Vinny sad as well. 
    ‘This is my life, Sarah. You’ve drawn my life.’
    ‘You look so happy when you’re asleep. Peaceful.’
    ‘I’m not asleep, I’m high. And I’m not happy, not any more. Just relieved I’ve made it.’
    ‘Still, I wish I could get that sort of peace.’ 
    His face darkens, as if a cloud just went overhead. 
    ‘You don’t need that. If I thought you’d go down that road one day, I’d kick you out of here, Sarah. It’s not for you. You’re going to have a baby.’
    ‘I didn’t mean …’ Or did I? When you think about it, reality stinks. There’s not much to recommend it. So if there’s some way – a smoke, a pill, a pinprick – of making things better, why not?
    ‘The best way to get clean is not to get dirty in the first place. Don’t start. Don’t ever take the first step.’
    ‘Just say no?’
    ‘You’re laughing at me – it’s not funny. All my friends, all of them, are on something. Most of us will never get off, get clean. Some of us will die from it. You’re different. You’re the least fucked-up person I know. Don’t change.’
    ‘I’m not going to. I’m not going to take anything. I’d just like to be able to sleep, that’s all. A proper night’s sleep, without dreaming.’
    ‘Why don’t you draw it?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Your nightmare. If you draw it, get it out of your system, it might go away.’
    I’m scared. It feels as though I’m bringing it into the light. It will take up my day as well as my night. But who am I kidding? I think about it anyway, so Vinny’s right, I might as well draw it.
    I find a fresh roll of wallpaper and I start to draw. But pencil’s no good. I ask Vinny to fetch me some charcoal. It needs dark lines. It feels right to be drawing with somethingalready blackened by fire. My hand’s shaking as I start to sketch. I can’t do it. I close my eyes and I’m back there again. It’s in my head, filling me up, and then it spreads through me – the light and dark, the faces, the fire, the fear. I start drawing with my eyes still closed, and when I open them, there’s a face looking back at me from the paper.
    A man is holding a child in his arms.
    It’s him.
    It’s Adam.

Chapter 17: Adam
    T hey take it – my book. They take it and they won’t give it back. Junior starts looking through, flicking the pages. 
    ‘What’s this? Your little black book? You’ve not had all of these, have you? Dirty bastard.’
    ‘Shut up. Give it back.’
    ‘It’s boys and girls. I knew there was something sick about you. You’ve not had all these, not in a million years. But maybe you