Bright Fame, Dark Life: Chapter 1

Imagine it. A large gloomy council estate in the poor part of a big town. The kind of place where there are gangs of children or glum teenagers and stray dogs everywhere no matter what time of day or what day of the week. The kind of place that policemen would pretend didn't exist, knowing they would have a field day if they had the courage to search it, but never having the courage. The kind of place where every boy over the age of nine or so carries a knife and every woman has a horde of children, rarely with a father in sight. The kind of place where people don't live, they survive.
We lived in one of these houses. I remember the bathroom hot tap never worked properly. If you turned it on, it spat at you once and then died. The front door never had locks. We had nothing worth stealing anyway. My older brothers, only by eighteen months apart, were sixteen and fifteen at the time. Their ages meant they were part of the groups of teenage boys who hung around, kicking their heels and getting bored.
It is dusk, the sun falling slowly behind the houses like a slow-motion football kicked into the air. Stomachs rumbled, calling my brothers home. The gangs split up, heading for home.
Two small five-year-olds played in the jungle of table and chair legs in the dining room. The little girl, brown hair shot through with copper, pushed a small car around under the table. Her twin watched her for a second, before leaping forward to grab the car. I was that little girl, and the sandy-blond boy was my twin, Jasper, known to everyone as Jas.
You know the cliché about twins doing everything together, and never fighting, being best friends and all that? Not true with us. Jas and I never got on. He could never see me with a toy without wanting it for himself. We only had male toys in the house anyway, since I was the only girl. The only girl in a brood of four. Jas never liked me, always seeming jealous. Perhaps he sub-consciously always knew the truth and resented me for it. I certainly never had a clue.
As we fought over that little car, a red Mini I think it was, our brothers arrived home. As they pulled us apart and Mark sat me on his lap, I heard Mum cooking supper. My preoccupation with the car had blocked everything out before. I remember little of Mum, but her gentle hands and the soft musky scent of vanilla.
As we settled down to supper, devouring the food hungrily, the front door slammed open. Dad was home from whichever pub he had crawled from. Yes, we had a dad, our biological father living with us, or so I thought at the time, rare in that council estate, but no one envied us, knowing the silent truth behind our frequent bruises and cuts.
As he slumped on the remaining armchair in the sitting room and shouted for his supper, we fell into silence. Mark's cheek still bore a bruise from the day before. The television played on merrily. He threw a cushion at it. Dan switched it off quickly with the remote control.
I don't remember why he started shouting that time. He always found a reason. The drink made him angry. Mum always did her best to calm him, but it never worked.
He was furious that night. When Mum brought his supper in, he bellowed at her. The plate smashed into three pieces as he flung it at the television. A long crack appeared across the screen. Food dripped down onto the floor. Mum cowered back. Dad stood up, shaking his fist at her. Mark was sitting next to me on the sofa, nearest to the door. He leapt up, shouting at Dad to get back, to get away from Mum. A single blow sent my brother flying. He landed on the floor with a thud that echoed through my head.
Mum screamed, "Pete, not the children! Leave the children!
"The children! He bellowed back, "The children! Are they all you think about? I am your husband! What about me?
"Leave her alone, you bastard! Mark yelled from the floor, still dizzy from the blow. My other brothers and I sat in silence, curled up and trembling.
"What did you call me? Dad loomed over Mark, like an ogre escaped from the fairy tales we had been told.
Mark swallowed. His voice quietened, hate piercing the air. "You're a bastard! I hate you!
Mum grabbed Dad's arm, "Pete, leave him alone. He doesn't know what he's saying. Ignore him.
Mark was sixteen years old. He knew perfectly well what he was saying.
"I'm his dad. He's supposed to respect me. Dad glared at Mum, as though Mark's lack of respect was her fault. He never could accept the blame for anything.
"He does, he does, honestly. Mum assured him.
Dad glared down at my brother. "No, he doesn't. But he will. He stalked out of the sitting room and into the kitchen.
Mum crouched by Mark, whispering quickly, "Honey, please be good. Please¦
"Mum, he is a ba¦ Mark started angrily. His words drained off into silence as Dad came back with a long kitchen knife. Mark's face blanched white, looking all the whiter for his raven-black hair.
Mum shrieked, flinging herself towards her husband. "Pete, Pete, he's only a child. He¦ Please don't! Please!
Dad pushed her out of the way. Her head crunched against the wall.
"Mum! Mark yelled, scrambling to his feet.
"You need to learn some respect, you do. Dad told Mark, the knife wavering an inch from my brother's face.
"Respect for you? Respect a drunken old git with a beer-gut, who beats his wife and hurts his kids? Not likely! Mark shouted back, his blood-red anger not caring about the knife, as it glistened in the lamplight.
Dad's mouth fell open. No one spoke to him like that. Mum stumbled to her feet, croaking, "Marcus! Apologise at once!
Mark gaped at her, as she repeated her order. Jas whimpered as he huddled against me. I could feel his body shaking.
"Yeah, apologise, you brat! Dad waved the knife at Mark again.
"Put the knife away, Pete. Mum's words were urgent.
Dad swung round to face her, "You're ordering me? I'm in charge here. I'm the man of the family.
"Bullshit! Mark exploded. "You don't have a job, you drink away most of our money, you hit Mum, you hit me, you hit Dan, you even hit the little 'uns! You're an utter ba¦
Before the word could leave Mark's lips, Dad bellowed in rage and swung the knife towards his son. Mum was screaming. I think Jas was too. Dan shut his eyes, burying his head in a cushion. I couldn't close my eyes. I couldn't look away.
There was blood on the carpet. The screaming stopped. It wasn't Mark's blood. Mum had leapt forward and Dad, panicked by the noise, had swung towards her.
Mum collapsed onto the floor. No one moved at first. Dad stared down at her and then at the bloody knife in his hand.
His hand opened and the knife fell to the floor. He didn't look at any of us, as he turned away. He walked over to the door and then began running. The front door slammed. His running footsteps faded slowly.
She lay still, her face contorted in fear and pain. Blood seeped through her torn blouse. Her blank eyes stared at the ceiling.
Mark didn't move. He stared at his mother, the corpse of his mother. No dramatic last words. I didn't even hear her last breath. A candle, blown out by a sudden gust of wind.
For the rest of his life, Mark would regret his angry outburst at his father. For years, he would blame himself for his mother's death.
Slowly, he got to his feet. "Dan, get up.
Dan obeyed. I noticed his hands were shaking.
Mark spoke without expression. "Come on, we have to go pack.
"Pack? Dan asked.
"We're leaving. Mark said. No one asked why.
Jas and I were herded from the room like sheep. They packed quickly, clothes, toys, food. Mark knew where Mum had hidden some money from Dad and took that. It wasn't much, but it was something. In ten minutes, the four of us stood in the hall with our bags.
Mark opened the door, "Come on. We left quietly.
At the first working pay-phone we came to, Mark called the police, telling them our address and that he had heard screams. The police promised to come quickly.
We left.