43 1 What’s your story? ‘Don’t be so rude,’ she says, handing Spike his can. ‘Tell Spike your name.’ ‘Leo,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘I saw that!’ Mam barks. She takes a slurp of her cider and turns to Spike. ‘Right little so-and-so this one is. Dunno where he gets it from. Must be from his father’s side.’ ‘Don’t talk about my dad like that,’ I say. ‘I’ll talk about him how I like, thank you very much,’ Mam replies, rummaging in her handbag. ‘He’s a good-fornothing bastard.’ ‘He. Is. Not.’ I growl, separating each word. ‘Oh really?’ Mam continues, lighting a cigarette and taking a greedy puff on it. ‘Where is he then? If he’s so bloody marvellous, where the bloody hell is he, Leo? Eh?’ I can’t answer her. ‘Exactly,’ she says, taking a triumphant swig of cider. I can feel the familiar knot in my stomach forming, my body tensing, my skin getting hot and clammy, my vision fogging. I try to use the techniques Jenny taught me; roll out my shoulders, count to ten, close my eyes, picture myself on a deserted beach, etcetera. When I open my eyes Mam and Spike have moved on to the settee, giggling away like I’m not even in the room. Spike’s hand is snaking under Mam’s blouse and Mam is whispering in his ear. She notices me watching and stops what she’s doing. ‘And what do you think you’re looking at?’ she asks. ‘Nothing,’ I mutter. ‘Then get lost will ya.’ It’s not a question. I slam the living room door so hard the entire house shakes. […] to bark – gelta to rummage – gramsa to growl – urra a swig – stór sopi a knot – hnútur to fog – verða þokukennt deserted – yfirgefið to mutter – muldra
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