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Somebody I’m going to run to now, regardless the costs.

Chapter four

Delilah

Then—School

Mum: I’ll be busy tonight. Duncan will be here from eight.

I want to scream. It’s only been a week and a half since the last time she did this, the night I went home with Christian. I wasn’t expecting it again so soon.

Usually, when Mum and Duncan hook up, the pattern is the same. They’re hot and heavy for a few hours, usually having noisy sex in any room of the house that takes their fancy. Then, at some point, the enamourment turns into a fight. Sometimes it’s the following evening, but more often than not, it’s the early hours of the next day. Regardless, the fight happens. Typically furious, with screaming, pushing, and swearing. I’ve heard her hit him. I’ve heard him hit her. The first time I tried to intervene, she hit me and told me to mind my fucking business. That was bad enough, but I don’t know what I would have done if he’d hit me instead. Now, I stay out of the way when they fight.

Usually the fight gets explosive, and then he’ll storm out, shouting over his shoulder that she’s a dirty whore, and she’ll scream at him that he’s shit in bed. Doors will slam. Alcohol will be drunk, something I get to witness with my mother and smell on Duncan if he comes back to continue the fight. They retreat, lick their wounds, and then eventually they’re back together, repeating the cycle. There are a few other men who sometimes come around in the gaps—most are nicer than Duncan, as hardly anybody could be worse—but usually weeks pass between his visits, sometimes months.

Now, instead of going home as I anticipated tonight, I’m going to have to go out. Repeat my usual process and try to avoid what I know will be an explosive night at home. At least I still have things packed in my bag and didn’t let myself get lulled into a false sense of security that I had a longer reprieve. I have a clean little black dress, and an outfit for tomorrow. Fortunately, I’ve been paid, so at least I have a little bit of money to buy my ticket to whatever club I end up in. Not a massive amount of money, given I cleared my debt for my lunch account, but enough.

I reply to my mother, telling her I won’t be home. As usual, I don’t elaborate about where I’m going, and she doesn’t ask.

“Are you okay?”

The voice takes me by surprise, making me jump. I glance up and see Joseph staring at me. I shouldn’t really be surprised. I’ve seen him here every lunchtime since he started teaching last Tuesday. He tries to chat every day, usually around the history lesson topic, and I’m grateful he never brings up the morning in his and Christian’s kitchen.

The conversations between us are mostly stilted. I’m not even sure they can be classed as a conversation. He asks questions; I mutter responses or ignore him. I’m not sure why he hangs around and tries to get me to open up. I’m sure he probably just wonders if I’m heartbroken that Christian didn’t call, misunderstanding the situation. I wonder if Christian lied and bragged to him that something happened between us, or if he even forgot I was there.

Regardless, a conversation with the student teacher about an alleged night of passion is not something I want to open myself up to. I owe him no explanations.

“I’m fine,” I reply. “Just trying to enjoy a quiet lunch.”

It’s the longest sentence I’ve offered him outside the classroom. He’s a fairly decent teacher. He likes to have an interactive lesson with all students participating, so I talk in lessons—answer his questions and offer my opinion—but when I see him outside the lessons, I’ve been quieter. He doesn’t seem to mind.

I push my mobile back into my bag and pull out the sandwich I purchased earlier in the canteen. I may have paid the arrears on my account, but my wages need to stretch as far as possible, and the plain ham sandwich was my cheapest option. I don’t have the luxury of having a decent meal at school until Mum remembers to top up the account properly.

“That is the saddest-looking sandwich I’ve ever seen,” Joseph scoffs as I open it.

“It’s not that bad,” I counter.

He steps closer to the desk I’m at. This area has a simple set-up—four desks pushed together to make a large square, eight chairs shoved underneath them. It isn’t officially an area for the sixth formers, but it’s mostly used by history students. Usually I have the space to myself.

Not today, apparently.

Joseph pulls a chair out from the desk opposite me and sinks into it. He lifts the strap of his messenger bag, pulling it over his head and off his shoulder, putting the bag on the floor. He rummages around for a moment and then pulls out his own lunch. His lunchbox looks like it contains a pesto pasta salad. The smell that wafts towards me as he opens the lid makes my mouth water. He pulls out a little set of cutlery, along with a book and a flask.

We eat in silence, but it’s the same as what happened at the start of the week when he first sat down for his lunch. I was too surprised and stunned to speak, and that has continued all week.

I chew slowly on my dry sandwich and sketch a little in my sketchpad. He stabs at his pasta, spearing the bows and eating while he flicks through the pages of his book, engrossed in whatever he’s reading. When he pours himself a coffee from the flask, I try to stop my mouth watering again. I glance at him—trying to do it inconspicuously by looking from under my thick fringe—but he doesn’t make eye contact with me. He doesn’t drink the coffee he’s poured. Instead, he pushes the cup slowly across the divide of the table towards me.

I look at it for a second, wondering if he meant to push it towards me. He doesn’t attempt to pull the cup back. Instead, he pulls his hand back and continues to flick through his book and eat his pasta. I leave it for a minute, then pick up the cup and drink the coffee. Black, unsweetened, piping hot, and perfection.

I put the cup down when I’m finished, sliding it back across the table divide. His pasta is finished now. He puts the cup back on top of the flask and the lid back on his lunchbox.

“What are you drawing?” he asks.

“Just little scribbles.”

“May I see?”

“They’re just little scribbles,” I repeat.