Free Bone Song by Sherryl Clark Page A

couch is a futon that someone obviously sleeps on, judging by the pillow on the floor. Probably Goody.
    The muffin is brilliant, soft and rich and chocolatey. I could eat about twenty of them, but I leave the rest on the plate for Goody and her mum. Goody puts the kitten on the floor where he shakes himself and tries a few licks before opening his mouth and yowling. Within seconds, there’s a bowl of milk in front of him. He laps and purrs at the same time which is so funny that Goody and I get the giggles.
    ‘He sounds like he’s purring underwater ,’ she says. ‘Hey, Midnight, slow down.’ She strokes the top of his head with one finger. This girl will not be taking this kitten to be put down tomorrow, trust me. I check my watch. It’s well after six – should I phone home? Hmmm, what’s the best strategy? Am I being good or not? Will it change Mother’s mind about Barton? No.
    ‘What about your jeans?’ Goody says. ‘This furry thing sidetracked me. I’ll get the sewing box.’ The kitten has finished the milk and its tongue rasps on the bowl.
    Goody puts an old chocolate box down in front of me and sits on the floor, picking upMidnight who immediately starts padding on her stomach. I open the box and check out the rows of coloured thread, the square green pincushion, the scissors and folder of needles. This is so dumb. I don’t know where to start. I’ve never sewn a thing in my life. She’ll think I’m totally useless, and I am.
    ‘Do you want to take your jeans off in Mum’s bedroom?’ Goody thinks I’m shy. Well, that’s better than useless.
    ‘No, it’s OK.’ I jump up and undo the button, pull down my jeans and step out of them. When I hold them up, the rip looks gi-normous. ‘Oh, wow, these are history. Are they worth fixing?’
    ‘Not really. But you only need to sew them up enough to get home. Here, hold him.’ We swap the jeans and the kitten. Goody picks black thread out of the box, cuts off a length, threads a needle and begins stitching. While I tickle Midnight under the chin, I watch closely. I figure if I ever manage to get away from Mother, I’ll need to know this kind of stuff.
    I can see it’ll take a while. I can’t help it, I have to ask. ‘Er, is your mum OK?’
    ‘Sure.’ Goody hooks through two more stitches. ‘Sort of. She’s taken two of her tranquillisers, instead of one. They make her really slow and dopey when she does that.’ Four more stitches. ‘She kind of goes through cycles where she’s worse than usual. This is one of them.’
    ‘Is she sick?’
    ‘No.’ Goody looks me straight in the eyes as if she’s testing me out. ‘She’s terrified out of her wits. She keeps waiting for Dad to find us again. Next time he might kill her. But not if I have anything to do with it.’ She looks down again and keeps stitching.
    Her words blast through my mind. Her dad is one of those maniac husbands? They’re on the run from him? Does this kind of thing really happen to people outside of TV? It’s almost too weird to believe, except she said it and I don’t think she’d make up something like that. I hope my face isstaying blank. I’d hate to be like one of those people salivating over a gory road accident or murder. I’m so rattled, I don’t know what to say next. I honestly don’t want to be a snoop, but I can’t sit here and say nothing.
    ‘How long have you been, er, on the move?’
    ‘Running. We’ve been running for two and a half years. This is our third hidey-hole. He’s found us twice.’ She twists her mouth around and then bites her lips. Her tone is flat, like she’s trying to be factual about it, trying to make it sound an everyday thing. But it’s not. It’s horrible, scary. In fact it’s totally fucking terrifying. How can they live like this? Well, they don’t, der-brain! They hide, like she said, and her mum has to take tranquillisers to cope.
    ‘That’s… this is… God, I’m so sorry.’ Goody glares at me and I stumble