41 1 What’s your story? […] ‘Leo!’ Tia yells again. I sigh and sit up. Tia is my little sister. She’s seven and a complete pain in the neck. Mam let her have a pair of high heels for her last birthday and when she’s not watching telly she clomps round the house in them, talking in an American accent. Tia’s dad is called Tony. He’s in prison, doing time for handling stolen goods. My dad is called Jimmy. I miss him. ‘Leo, I’m hungry!’ Tia wails. ‘Then eat something!’ ‘We’ve got nothing in!’ ‘Tough!’ She starts to cry. It’s ear splitting. I sigh and heave myself off the bunk. I find Tia at the bottom of the stairs, fat tears rolling down her face. She’s short for a seven-year-old and paperclipskinny. As soon as she sees me her tears stop and she breaks into this big dopey smile. She follows me into the kitchen, which is a mess; the sink piled high with dishes. I search the cupboards and fridge. Tia’s right, the kitchen is bare and God knows what time Mam’s going to be back. She left just before lunch, saying she was off to the bingo hall with Auntie Kerry. There’s no money in the tin so I take all the cushions off the settee and check the inside of the washing machine and the pockets of all the coats hanging in the hallway. We line up the coins on the coffee table. It’s not a bad haul – £4.82. ‘Stay here and don’t answer the door,’ I tell Tia. She’ll only slow me down if I take her with me. I put my hoodie on and walk fast, my head down, sweat trickling down my back and sides. Outside the shop there’s a bunch of lads from my old school. Luckily they’re distracted, mucking around on their bikes, so I pull my hood up, fastening the zip to the top so all you can see are my eyes. I buy crumpets, Tizer, washing-up liquid and a chocolate Swiss roll that’s past its best-before date. dopey – kjánalegur a cushion – púði a settee – sófi a haul – afli to muck around – slæpast a crumpet – mjúk brauðbolla Tizer – enskur gosdrykkur a Swiss roll – rúlluterta
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