she first met Malachi. Dad had given her an hour then too, explained how grateful she should be for it. ‘More than enough time to go round the field and straight back home.’ She grabbed that time, and even though he was watching her from the window, she felt free as she ran loops around the frosty field.
The drunks, immune to the freezing temperatures of the morning, watched from their bench as she ran past them several times that hour. ‘You should be running this way, blondie,’ one called, while shaping his hands in a V towards his crotch on her last lap. They all laughed and she ran faster. She could always go faster and with time ticking she needed to get home before Dad came out for her. She cut onto the grass, slipped and fell awkwardly. It hurt straight away. Her ponytail caught the side of her face as she turned to check if the drunks were still laughing at her, but they hadn’t even noticed her fall. The dew began to seep through her leggings and she tried to stand, but buckled immediately with the pain.
‘Hey,’ someone called. ‘You okay?’ A tall man came running towards her and put out a gloved hand. ‘You really went down hard there.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Here, let me help you.’
As he helped her to a bench she tried to concentrate on the hole in his glove to stop herself from blushing.
‘You really do run out here in all weathers, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘I live up in Nightingale Point. I always see you out here.’
He had seen her before. How had she never seen him? She tried not to stare, or lean into his arms too much.
Tristan Roberts came over too. He was from her school, one of those loud, obnoxious boys everyone seemed to know.
‘Oh, shit, did you break your leg?’
‘No, she ain’t broken her leg. This is my brother.’
They looked nothing alike.
‘Ain’t you cold?’ Tristan pulled the drawstrings on his hoodie tighter. ‘Running round out here? That’s long.’
She could see Dad coming across the field now, his face red from fatigue and panic.
‘I’m fine, really. Thanks. I need to get home.’ She tried to rise but the pain shot through and she winced. He grabbed her again; the pain was almost worth it.
‘Get off her. Pam.’ Dad was closer. ‘Pam, Pam.’ He pushed past Tristan and put his hands either side of her face. ‘I knew I should have been watching you. What happened?’
‘She’s all right, man, she just tripped, innit,’ Tristan said.
‘Who are you? Why are you two even near my girl?’
‘Dad, stop it. Tristan goes to my school.’
Tristan looked confused. He obviously didn’t recognise her. It confirmed she had no presence at her new school; she was nobody.
‘I’m Malachi. We live in the same block. We were making sure she was all right. That’s all.’
‘Well, she’s fine ’cause I’m here now, ain’t I?’ Dad snapped. ‘Come on. Let’s get you home.’ His grip on her arm was tighter than it needed to be. She could see Malachi noticed it too.
‘This looks bad, Pam. Don’t think you’ll be running again for a while.’ Dad looked relieved, happy because injuries meant she had no reason to go out.
Even now, with the injury long healed, he still won’t let her out, but then he has other reasons for wanting to keep her inside the flat these days. She pulls the curtains open and the room brightens, but even the sun’s glare is not enough to chase the perpetual gloom out.
Dad inspects his roll-up for life before roughly squeezing it onto a saucer. It’s from her nan’s set, cream with tiny brown corgis around the edge, once used for special occasions but now reduced to holding ash.
‘I’m going to the bookies,’ he says. ‘Will be back for dinner. We’ll heat up that corned beef.’
‘They’re fighting again,’ she says.
‘Who?’
‘Next door. Can’t you hear them?’
They stop for a moment to listen to the searing soap opera from flat forty-two that plays itself out so regularly. It sounds particularly theatrical today. What is the woman shrieking about this time? She always seems to be arguing with her teenage daughter over something. Pamela longs for that kind of relationship, one so freely volatile that you could scream and shout at a parent, rather than stand there and soak up their disappointment.
‘They been at it all morning,’ he huffs. ‘Their voices go right through me.’
Pamela tries to block out the domestic so she can focus on Dad, her own situation. She tries to assess his mood by the way he clears his throat and collects his wallet. She wonders at her chances of success and waits to pick her moment.
He looks straight at her. ‘Why you dragging those about?’ He nods towards the pair of pink and lilac trainers in her hands.
The tip of her ponytail tastes chemically; he always buys the cheapest shampoo.
‘I won’t go anywhere other than around the field. I promise.’
‘You’ve only been home a few days. You expect me to let you start running wild again?’ He holds his anger in so well, but she can see it behind his eyes, ready to pop like glass. ‘No chance. You’re staying in.’
‘You know it rained the whole month I was at Mum’s. I haven’t been out running in ages.’
He shakes his head again.
‘I want to go round the field a few times. It’s the middle of the day,’ she tries. ‘You can watch me from here.’
‘Told you. I’m going out.’ His keys jangle as he taps his pockets and walks away, her chances dissipating.
‘What about swimming? Can I go to the pool?’
He laughs. ‘Yeah, right, the pool. Why? You arranged to meet someone there, have you?’
‘No. Dad, please.’ She follows him into the hallway, not content to let it end there. She knows she’s already in trouble anyway. ‘So you expect me to stay in all day listening to that?’
The walls leak more cries from the quarrelling neighbours.
He checks the handle on his bedroom door: locked. ‘You can use the phone. Call one of your mates for a chat.’
‘I don’t want to chat. I want to go out. I want to run.’
He stops by the front door and gently takes her plait in one of his hands. ‘No.’ So calm. So fixed. ‘I don’t trust you out the flat. In fact, I don’t even know if I trust you to be alone in the flat.’ He lets the long plait fall and kisses her on the head.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, how can I be sure that the minute I go out your little boyfriend won’t come running up?’
‘Because I don’t have a boyfriend anymore. Remember?’
He holds her gaze but what can he say? He knows he ruined it for her; he ruined everything.
‘Dad?’
He turns to face her, keys now in his hands as he opens the front door. ‘Yeah? Come on, Pam, what you wanting now?’
I hate you. ‘Nothing.’
The door closes and she listens for the Chubb lock, but hears no footsteps. He’s still outside; maybe he will change his mind and give her permission to start living again. But then, seconds later,