The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

Postcards from the Edge

London, 1992

"Look what I've got!"

Daisy's face was triumphant. She waved the postcard in front of Katrina's face.

"It's from Mick!"

No way on this earth would Katrina ever take that postcard from her hand. Even though she wanted to. Daisy knew this, which was why she dangled the card, wafting it in front of Katrina, that annoying half-smile on her face. Theirs was a relationship that depended on the to and fro of power. Postcard drifts up to Katrina's nose, the advantage. Away, the ball back in Daisy's court.

Debbie had come into the kitchen. She snatched the postcard from Daisy and handed it over to Katrina.

"Here, you go. Take no notice of my cow of a daughter."

Debbie and Daisy's relationship never ceased to surprise Katrina. Her own mother was a mystery to her, a weird, unknown quantity who smoked, watched TV, spoke seldom and rarely expressed an opinion. Since she'd moved down south and in with Daisy, her mother Debbie and brother Matthew, Katrina's mum had been in touch twice.

Aye, Mum. Full of loving concern, right?

I do not care. She said this over and over.

Mick's postcard was something else. He wrote me a postcard! She hugged the thought to herself, skipping up the stairs to her room. The Walkers lived in a big house. They kept telling her it wasn't, but for fuck's sakes, this place had four bedrooms! And a dining room. A kitchen with a table in it, so they could all sit around it and eat! It smelled permanently of lavender, thanks to the potpourri Debbie littered in every room.

Aye, posh. Right enough.

"Catty, I'm coming to London!"

When she'd got to the age of thirteen, Katrina had hit upon the idea of people calling her Kit-Kat. Why not? Mick never listened. He'd called her Catty from the first time he'd met her when she was twelve, and he was fifteen.

His mum, Morag, was an old school friend of her mum's who ran the local hotel, the Star Tavern. When they'd left Katrina's dad, Morag had taken them in for a while, giving them a free room in the hotel. Katrina's first sight of Mick came the day after they moved in.

She heard voices downstairs, a whispered conversation where one party sounded aggrieved.

"They've nowhere else tae go, Mick. Think of it as a good deed. Jesus wants you for a sunbeam, aye?" At that, Morag laughed, the sound of it dark and dirty. Her words made Katrina uncomfortable. She and her mum were or had been, Jehovah's Witnesses. Morag's words held a mocking edge to them.

Katrina made her way slowly downstairs, treading heavily so that they heard her coming. Stood in the doorway to the lounge bar, Morag grinned at her.

"Wee Katrina! D'ye want some chips, or are you down here on the scrounge for vodka?"

That deep, dirty laugh again. Morag had said a few things along those lines since Katrina and her ma had moved in.

"No thanks, Morag, but your vodka needs replaced. The bottle's just aboot empty."

Morag started at that, ducking back behind the archway and checking the optics behind her. When she came back, she looked at Katrina differently, appraisingly. She hadn't expected a smart mouth or the bossiness.

But any thoughts of Morag vanished. A second figure had materialised, taking up space beside Morag. Katrina fell in love. It had to be love, right? Her stomach flipped over, the blood rushed to her face warming it uncomfortably, and her legs appeared to be glued to the spot.