There’s a concrete courtyard outside our block of council flats scattered with broken beer bottles and used needles. It’s the nearest we have to a community centre and all sorts of things go on behind the bins.
I’m stuck at home, still in bed in the afternoon, listening to the rain batter against the window. There’s no money for the heating. I haven’t worked in weeks. I’ll stay here all day, as I did yesterday and the day before. Tomorrow never comes in my life.
There’s nothing in the kitchen, we finished off the Mother’s Pride last night. I’m so hungry and all I can think about is a steaming plate of fish and chips. Fish and chips: my aspirations are that low.
I stare up at the ceiling willing my mind to go blank. Joe will be back soon. He’s the one in our partnership with the looks and the initiative. He’s been gone two hours already.
I hear the front door open. I know where he’s been, what he’s done, but I’ll ask no questions.
He stands in the doorway of the bedroom, his usually bright open face frozen, his blond hair plastered to his forehead by rain. ‘A good day, hon,’ he whispers. He looks away as he slides his hand into the pocket of his tight, ripped jeans.
I can’t breathe. I don’t want to see what he has brought home.
‘Get us some dinner.’ He tosses something onto the bed. It is a £20 note.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 