Free Steal My Sunshine by Emily Gale Page B

sleepy, I sat at my desk and opened my laptop to check the news. There was nothing, just more rehashing of the same information and some new photos: Sophie winning a cross-country race at school a few years earlier, her face more rounded and young. There was a quote from her uncle saying she would have fought back if anyone had tried to hurt her, that she was strong and fast and really fit. I wanted it to mean that her chances were better than they looked.
    I closed the laptop and went back to bed. It was only five and the alert feeling I’d had when I’d first woken up was already turning into scratchy eyes and heaviness. Friday was here but I wasn’t ready. Maybe I’d go to school or maybe Mum would want me here. I drifted off again. In my mind were waves of thoughts about Dad and all the conversations we’d had in the days before he’d left, when he must have known all along that he was going. What do you want on your toast, Han? (By the way, this is the last breakfast we’ll ever eat as a family.) Don’t forget to take that DVD back to the rental place. (I won’t be here to remind you any more.)
    I opened my curtains and lifted the window. Sleep wasn’t going to happen. From that tiny peek of sky above the house I could see it was going to be a stunning day, but that did nothing for me. It was a slice of ‘Life goes on, Hannah!’ and I couldn’t stand that.
    I heard laughter coming from outside. Was that Mum?
    When I got out of bed and opened my bedroom door, a weird smell hit me straightaway. At first I thought it was Sam’s trainers – he always left them outside his bedroom door so that we had to suffer them and he didn’t. But there was no sign of them. His door was ajar and he looked sound asleep, with his feet sticking out the end of the bed and one arm folded over his eyes. I closed his door. This was my chance to speak to Mum.
    The smell was still strong. Was it rubbish day? Or maybe Scribble had killed something and brought it in. Cats did that – brought you gifts you didn’t want. Like loopy Margot and her lavender candle, which probably wasn’t going to solve our problems. Thanks anyway, Margot.
    At that moment Scribble grazed against my legs and jumped onto my bed, settling himself on my pillow. I went cautiously up the hall, looking for a bloodied rodent or half a bird.
    The smell was more familiar now. I thought it might be food but there was no one cooking in the kitchen. Anyway, Mum didn’t do cooked breakfasts. She was usually working before anyone got up, and if you ever asked her what there was to eat she’d wave at some brown cardboard flakes or yoghurt that stank of damp goat hair.
    There was more laughter and it came from our courtyard out the back. I suddenly remembered that smell. A voice saying, ‘Let’s roll another one,’ confirmed it. I couldn’t believe it. To get to the sliding doors I had to step amongst the broken Christmas decorations and over the toppled tree. Then I just stood there and waited for them to look at me.
    â€˜Hannah! Beautiful, lovely Hannah!’ Margot leaped out of one of our garden chairs and guided me into it.
    â€˜Er, Mum,’ I said as I let Margot sit me down, ‘since when do you smoke?’
    Margot and Mum giggled. Mum shrugged. The garden table was covered in tiny curls of tobacco and screwed-up pieces of rolling paper. There were some fat discarded joints lying around that were barely stuck together, spewing their contents, a near-empty packet of cigarettes and a dismantled lighter. The lavender candle was half its original size and the jug from Mum’s liquidiser was filled with a greenish-brown liquid.
    â€˜What’s in there?’
    â€˜Peppermint tea,’ said Margot, struggling to get the words out. ‘This stuff makes you thirsty, doesn’t it, Sar?’ She slapped her legs and they both burst out