Free Zom-B by Darren Shan Page B

show, gets a few answers right and chuckles proudly, delighted with himself. Mum brings the tea and he pats her bum as she places it before him. She smiles crookedly, sits by his side and kisses the hand he struck her with.

    Later, in my room, sitting up in bed, listening to tunes on my iPod. Crying. I hate tears but tonight I can’t hold them back. I’m notin much pain–the slap didn’t even leave a mark–but inside I feel wretched.
    I don’t want to blame Dad for what he did. I make excuses for him, the way I always do. Mum shouldn’t have challenged him. She knows what he’s like. She should have read his mood and…
    No. I can’t put the blame on her. I was wrong too. I shouldn’t have risked my neck for an Indian kid. I should have left the baby to the mutants. One less for us to kick out of the country. Dad was right. He was trying to help us see the world the way it really is. We should have listened. It wasn’t his fault. I shouldn’t have saved the baby. Mum should have kept her mouth shut.
    I tell myself that over and over. I make every excuse for him that I can. And I try to believe. I try so bloody hard to justify his actions, because he’s my dad and I love him. But deep down I know it’s a load of bull.
    When I’m crying so hard that I’m making moaning sounds, I channel the music through my speakers so that Dad won’t hear. Then I weep harder, fingers balled into fists, face scrunched up with hate and confusion.
    He’s a bully. A wife beater. A racist. A hateful, nasty sod. I want to hang him up by his thumbs. Sneer at him as he writhes in agony. Ask him if he’s proud of himself now, if he still thinks it’s all right to beat up a woman and child.
    Then I despise myself for thinking such a terrible thing. He wants what’s best for us. He’s trying to help, doing all that he can tosteer us the right way. He only hits us when we let him down. We have to try harder. We…
    “I hate him,” I moan, burying my face in my hands.
    But he’s my dad.
    “I hate him.”
    But he’s my dad.
    “I hate him.”
    But…

FIFTEEN
    Saturday drags. I stay in all day. A few of my mates call and ask me to come meet up, but I tell them I don’t feel well. They say everyone’s talking about me and how I rescued the baby. I laugh it off like it’s no big deal.
    Dad takes us out to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. Mum dresses up and slaps makeup over her bruise. She and Dad share a couple of bottles of wine. He lets me have a sip when nobody’s watching. Laughs when I grimace.
    “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll get used to it.”
    Dad’s polite as he can be to the staff. Funny how he doesn’t have a problem with foreigners when they’re serving him food. Most of his favorite grub comesfrom overseas, Chinese, Italian, Indian. I consider pointing that out to him, but I don’t want to set him off again.
    Mum and Dad head to the pub after the meal, leaving me to guard the fort at home. Dad gives me a fiver and tells me to treat myself to some chips and sweets. He scratches my head and grins. I grin back. The aggro of yesterday isn’t forgotten by any of us, but we move on, the way we always do. No point living in the past. We’d have burned out long ago if we held grudges.
    I watch a film, surf the Web, download some new tracks, play a few games, go to bed late. I don’t hear the old pair come home.

    I get up about midday. Dad’s still asleep. Mum’s working on a Sunday roast. We’re a bit stiff with each other. It always takes us a while to return to normal after Dad loses his temper. We’re both embarrassed.
    We eat at two. Dad’s hungover but he still manages to polish off his plate. He loves roasts, never leaves more than scraps. He drinks beer with the meal, saying that’s the only way to combat a hangover. Normally he praises Mum’s cooking but he doesn’t say much today, nursing a headache.
    “That was nice,” I mutter as Mum clears up.
    “I’ve got dessert for later,” Mum