Free The Moon King by Siobhan Parkinson

a go on the exercise bike and the others were sitting looking out the window at the rain. The children often sat here, especially on rainy days, or when they were expecting a visitor, because there were deep windowseats and once you cleared the junk off them you could get a good view of the weather or of anyone struggling up the front garden. You didn’t walk up that front path, you climbed up it. It was always a struggle, because the garden was on such a steep slope.
    And sure enough, as Helen spoke, the nondescript bundle of clothes that was waddling up the steps towards the house came suddenly into focus. Several raindrops converged in a particular spot on the window, swimming together to form a temporary lens of rainwater, just levelwith Ricky’s vision. As he peered through the little lens of water, the figure clarified as that of the Lipstick Woman. Ricky sat stock still, his throat dry, his skin crawling, as the little knot of raindrops suddenly dispersed and ran in separate rivulets down the window.
    ‘How do you know that’s his social worker?’ Fergal gasped, still pedalling, and peering over the others’ shoulders.
    ‘I’m telling you. I asked her to come. I thought she ought to know about how badly he’s been behaving,’ said Helen smugly, kicking with her runners against the panelling of the windowseat.
    ‘Badly? Ricky behaving badly? What are you talking about?’ This was Fergal again. ‘And don’t kick the panelling, Helen. It’s all scuffed already from people doing that. You know Ma hates it.’
    Rosheen said nothing. She had seen the look of horror on Ricky’s face.
    ‘“Don’t kick the panelling. It’s all scuffed already,”’ Helen repeated in a silly sing-song copycat voice. ‘You’re so stupid, Fergal. If it’s all scuffed already then it doesn’t matter if I kick it some more, does it, dummy?’
    ‘Yes it does, fat-head, because it gets worse,’ retorted Fergal. ‘Anyway, Ricky doesn’t know how to behave badly. We all know who’s the specialist in bad behaviour around here. Miss Greeneyed Sourpuss.’
    Helen pouted, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. It looked as if she was getting her way.
    ‘Anyway,’ Fergal puffed on, ‘she wouldn’t come just because you wanted her to come. She’s coming on one of those regular visits they do so that they can go on being paid. She wouldn’t listen to you.’
    Helen just grinned. ‘You wait and see, then, Mr Smartypants Fergal. You just wait and see. She’s going to take him away. She knows he isn’t suitable for a decent family like this, a juvenile delinquent like him.’
    ‘Juvenile delinquent!’ Fergal laughed. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Ricky’s not a juvenile delinquent.’
    ‘Then what’s he doing living here?’ Helen challenged him. ‘If he’s just an ordinary boy, why doesn’t he live at home with his mother and father like normal people?’
    ‘He hasn’t got a father, Helen,’ said Fergal. ‘You know that. It was all explained. And his mother’s in hospital. He’s just here until she’s better and can mind him again herself. You know there’s always a reason kids come here, but it’s not because they’re juvenile delinquents. For goodness’ sake, get a grip!’
    Ricky looked at him curiously. Was his mother going to get better and mind him? Did that mean he had to go home? And would Ed be there still? If Ed was going to be there, he wasn’t going home, he wasn’t. Even if Ed wasn’t there, even if it was just going to be him and his mother, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go home. He loved his mother, but she hadn’t stopped Ed. She hadn’t been strong enough. She hadn’t had the guts. He half-thought shebelieved Ed when he said what a bad boy Ricky was. She must believe him if she went on letting him hit Ricky so often. She must think he needed to be beaten. Maybe he was a bad boy. Ed thought so. Helen thought so.
    ‘Shut up, Helen,’ said Rosheen through