28 Clover Lane

Chapter 2

7:22pm. The sun is lowering in the sky as I look out of my bedroom window, casting shadows across the street below. A perfect time to get some fresh air.

Downstairs, I call to mum to let her know I'm going out, then leave the house and unlock the garage. My bike is tied to a hook on the garage wall by a chain, which I unravel and let it drop to the floor. I climb onto the saddle and start pedalling.

I've always loved the sunset. It changes how the sky looks, turning it a brand new shade of colours: orange, red, yellow, sienna - colours of fire, as if someone has held a flame to the world above us and watched it burn. I watch it too as I pedal down Clover Lane, the cool evening breeze brushing past my face and whipping my blonde hair back out of my eyes. I ride for at least twenty minutes, round all the streets and alleyways and grass verges of Abbeydale, and by the time I return home I feel fresh, exhilarated, free. I chain my bike back up in the garage and open the front door. The house is quiet except for the distant ticking of the clock in the living room. I shout through the stillness of the house.

"Mum, I'm home!"

No reply. I go into the kitchen to find the dishwasher door open, the plates stacked disorderly as if they were shoved inside in a rush. I sigh, straighten them up, pour the washing liquid into the little compartment and press 'Start'. It whirs into action.

"Mum?" I call again, heading into the living room. I see an opened bottle of wine on the tea table, and a glass half-filled with the red liquid next to it. I grab them angrily and tip all of the contents into the kitchen sink, slamming the bottle into the bin when it's empty. I hate it when mum drinks. She can never seem to stop. I call out again, but there's still no answer. I presume she's gone for a lie-down, but I tip-toe upstairs anyway, just to check. Her bedroom door is slightly open, and I poke my head through the gap in case the hinges squeak if I open it fully. The room is dull, the dark curtains shut. I look at mum's double bed but there isn't a shape under the duvet, lying still and asleep. The bed's empty.

Instead, a square-shaped item is placed at the bottom of it that looks like a large book, but it's too dark to see properly. I push the door open and let the light from the landing flood into the room. As I move closer, I see what it is. A photo album. Pictures of mum and dad on their wedding day, some stood by their vintage car, some outside the church, some at the reception as they cut their huge white-iced wedding cake. Tears fill my eyes.

I'm not upset at the pictures of dad. It's the realisation of what mum's done that's getting to me. The house is empty, and now I know why. She's seen these photos and it's got her going again. Mum's done another runner.