Three Little Boys

Chapter 8

The flat is usually quiet when I get home, but tonight I hear noise. It is only the television in the lounge – Coronation Street I think. I find Mum sitting alone on the sofa. It makes a change. Normally she is lazing around in bed by now. "Hello, Doug," she says, using the remote control to switch the drivel off. "How are you?"

"Yeah, fine," I say with a shrug. I didn't notice David's shoes in the hallway when I came in and his bedroom door was open as I passed. He was not in there and there is no way that Mum would let him play out this late. "Where's David?" I ask.

"Well, it's Friday night. I said he could go and stay over at a friend's," she says, "It's just the two of us tonight. Can I get you anything to eat?"

I've already eaten at Auntie Eileen's – better food that Mum ever cooks, "No, thank you," I say.

"Are you sure?" she says, trying to get up, but collapsing again almost straight away.

And make her go to all that effort? I don't think so, "I'm fine," I say, letting my eyes wander across the work top in case there's a spare fun-size Twix still going.

"But you never eat," she says from her seated position. "I'm worried about you. You spend almost every evening with your friends and..." she trails off and, in the absence of any chocolate, I look at her, "Well, I know you don't look underweight, but I'm still very concerned about you."

"I'm fine," I say again, "Excuse me."

I know for a fact that I have two Dairy Crunch bars and nearly a whole Terry's Chocolate Orange hidden in the inside pocket of my spare school blazer, hanging on my wardrobe door. I'm on my way there when she calls me back, "Doug?" she says. "Just one more thing – it won't take long." That normally means it will. Anything that can allegedly be accomplished in a short space of time usually lasts for hours. "It's just... I've received your school report card for the half term and..."

"What do they say about me?" I demand to know.

She looks around for her glasses. I'm about to remind her that they are on her nose when she realises that all by herself. She picks up a small booklet that looks like it should be used to collect autographs and informs me, "Well, your teacher is a little worried that you're not integrating with the other convicts. She says – and these are only her words and I'm sure she's wrong – that, 'It would help if Doug would try and socialise with his peers rather than relying on imaginary friends.' Is that the case?"

"No," I say, "I hang out with my mates almost every night after school. You said so yourself."

"Yes, of course," Mum says. "I'm sure she doesn't appreciate what you get up to after school. But it does sound an awful lot like what your last form teacher said about you."

"Mr Barton was a liar."

"And the one before that."

"So was Mr Jefferson."

"There's an additional note from your prison Governor..."

"He's a liar, too."

"No, no, wait, it's not just about you – apparently they send one out about all the children of the family – if it's applicable. It's something he put here..."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," she says, putting the report down. "Like you say, your wardens don't know the real you. It was just a comment about how, sometimes when you display...er... mood swings, it's like I've sent three little boys to Bishopshalt."