Drove it drunk to Whitt Moor, missed a bend and bent a lamppost, ran to my half-sister’s bleeding and never got pinched. My father calls him Little bugger, puts a triangle of pints down on the table, goes back to the bar. My half-sister shakes her head. Smiles. Says, Tell him the rest of it, Ste, Tell him why you stole it. My half-brother drinks. Grins. Says, It belonged to that twat. Moved in a week after she’d chucked me out. So I wrote his Mondeo off. Ha. My half-sister tuts. That’s not all of it, she says, Tell him. Tell him what you did before that, Ste. My father puts two bottles of Grolsch in front of me, says Got you two cos we’re on pints, yeh? Go on, my half-sister says. Tell him the rest of it. Tell him what you did to the house. My half-brother grins. Lights a fag. Says, She deserved it, the slag. Then he tells me this. I went round to see her, to sort things out with her and the kid. But they weren’t in so I went for a beer. Waited. And later when I tried again still no one answered. So I went round the back. Got in by the dicky kitchen window to leave a note. And when I got in some twat’s work-boots were by the backdoor. Car keys on the key hook. Trousers on the fuckin clotheshorse. So I took a shit on her bed. Used it to write bitch on the wall. Pissed in her knicker drawer. Took a breadknife to her dresses. Went into the kid’s room and turned the cot upside down. Pulled the arms off a teddy. Stamped on a doll’s house. All of which I’d paid for in the first fuckin place. And my father laughs. Says Little bugger. Drinks. My half-sister shaking her head saying Oh Ste, you and your temper.



60. If you stood

58. A swift couple for the nerves