The Money Box Murder

Mum died leaving us alone. Aged 22 Geoff convinced the authorities he was
responsible enough, the right person, to look after me. He wasn’t much older
than our social worker. He flattered her, admiring her clothes and hair,
holding her coat, brushing her arm.

The charm offensive stopped when she left.

'Put the tea on and make sure the place is tidier the next time that silly tart
comes. We don't want her taking you away do we?'

He didn’t expect a reply.

I tried to keep up with my schoolwork but what with cleaning up after Geoff and
his mates and being kept awake by their drunken shenanigans I sometimes slept too
late. I went enough to keep concern away - I knew I'd get a slap if a letter
arrived, or worse still, a school inspector - but spent most of my time (when I
wasn't doing household jobs) reading and rereading my collection of battered books;
all presents from mum.

It got worse when I turned 16. Watching TV one Saturday afternoon with his booted feet on the coffee table Geoff said.

'Dave's coming round tonight. You be sure to be nice to him.'

I didn't understand for when I couldn’t keep out of their way I was always quiet,
but polite to, his friends. I soon learnt what this particular kind of 'nice' meant
when Dave arrived. He was 30ish, with a paunch and sweaty hands, and that night
my bedroom lost its sanctuary status. I'd never even seen a penis before.

No more school for me after that. No one seemed to notice. I had the house to
myself most days. When Geoff was in he generally had a mate in tow and that
invariably meant a 'date' for me as my brother so quaintly put it. Pete was the
only one I liked. He never touched me. He asked me stuff; what I liked to read,
what I dreamed of. I saw him giving money to Geoff and it kept the others away
for a while. It was Pete that gave me the idea. I was telling him how much I
like Roald Dahl's work when I remembered the story about the woman who kills
her husband with a frozen leg of lamb, cooks the evidence and then feeds it in
sandwiches to the investigating policemen.

My plan wasn't as neat; more spontaneous.  

A couple of nights after my chat with Pete I was pawed by three men, roughly by
the last. It hurt so much I cried.

I’d had enough.

After his friends left I crept slowly down the stairs, picked up my old Shaun the
Sheep money box, that Geoff had long since claimed for his loose change, and
brought it down heavily on the back of his greasy-haired head.

So that's my tale of 'the money box murder'. Except I didn't hit my brother quite
hard enough. Still he'll never walk or talk again and in another few years I'll
be released. I don't mind when really; I like it here. The people are kind to
me, there are books to read and I don't have to do the cooking.

 It's shepherds' pie tonight.