Free My Nasty Neighbours by Creina Mansfield Page A

meant to know what you’re doing, remember?’
    I did. Now look at Helen: she was the oldest, supposedly the most responsible of us, and she couldn’t even organise this little place. I stared round the room. It was dismal. The ash had settled on every flat surface, adding an extra inch ortwo to the dust already there.
    ‘This house is getting disgusting,’ I complained.
    Helen lifted her gaze from the wet ash and looked at Mum beseechingly. ‘Mum?’ she said.
    Mum smiled in quiet triumph. ‘This is nothing to do with us, is it?’ she said sweetly to Abbas. ‘Let’s leave those who know how to run their own lives to it, shall we? Would you like a piece of oaty date cake, dear? Or would you prefer datey oat cake?’ I heard her saying as she led Abbas out towards her back door. Since Mum got rid of her three children, she had the time to bake so many cakes that you’d think she was trying to compete with Mr Kipling.
    Then I considered. ‘Got rid of her three children’ was pretty accurate.
    I set about scraping up the soggy grey ash. Helen and Ian always went on about wanting more independence, but I didn’t. Twelve years old and abandoned, I thought bitterly. Left to fend for myself with a sister intent on electrocuting the lot of us and a manic depressive brother.
    The letterbox clicked. I picked up the card.On one side was a picture of two squirrels and a poem:
    A birthday is a special day
    For laughter, love and cheer
    For sharing warm and happy times
    With those you hold most dear.
    On the other side was a scrawled message: ‘Will call police if you park car in alley.’
    Mum and Dad had a lot to answer for, I thought gloomily as I mounted the stairs to my cold, bleak bedroom.
    The smell of burning lingered on the stairs and on the landing. That, and the realisation of my parents’ criminal irresponsibility, made me feel sick.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Illness
    A fter a restless sleep full of nightmares involving marshmallows, ash and fire, I woke and was sick.
    ‘Helen!’ I called feebly. I could hear the movement of jars and aerosols in the bathroom that signalled the beginning of Helen’s day.
    ‘Helen,’ I shrieked, trying to combine feebleness with volume. ‘I’m being sick.’
    But Helen didn’t reply. I felt so ill that I couldn’t even waste energy on being resentful. Helen would be a dead loss as a nurse anyway. My head ached and my stomach heaved. I started thumping on the wall, hoping that Mum and Dad would hear. Nothing.
    ‘Ian,’ I tried. From the direction of Ian’s bedroom came a sound that would have surprised me if I hadn’t been preoccupied with my own sickness. It was the once familiar strainsof Ian’s violin. He was playing a beautiful melody, a lingering mournful tune. But I was being sick again.
    Drastic action was necessary. I wrapped my dressing-gown around me and staggered down the stairs. My only hope was to reach no 10. There I would surrender myself to Mum and Dad’s care and sympathy.
    I pushed my way through the wet clothes and boots that blocked the back doorway. So much for Helen’s ideas about uncluttered decor.
    The cold air struck me as I slid on the encrusted snow. Despair hit me when I found the back door locked. Had Mum and Dad gone out? I had no idea what time it was. Perhaps they hadn’t unlocked the house yet. I pushed my right shoulder against the door in a move similar to one that had crushed many an opponent on the rugby field, but in my weak state, the door seemed to push back at me. Silver sat snugly inside on the kitchen window sill, pretending that he didn’t see me.
    ‘Open this door!’ I yelled. At last I heard the beautiful sound of the door being unlocked.
    ‘David.’ Dad stood there in his pyjamas,looking shocked at my appearance. I barged into the kitchen and slumped at the table.
    ‘Dad, I feel awful,’ I complained.
    Mum came downstairs and the Stirling Care and Rescue Service moved into action. I was led gently away to the spare