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“My stepdad likes tocheck upon me every now and then.”
“And that’s allowed, is it?”
“Of course it ain’t, social services talk all the talk but are generally fucking useless. They can’t keep him from turning up at my school and waiting for me to come out or harassing me on the street.”
“So that’s why you need to learn how to protect yourself?”
“Exactly,” he replies, his grey-green eyes flashing with hatred as his mind goes elsewhere for a moment.
“Ford?” I prompt after a minute of silence.
“And this one,” he says, snapping back into the room and pointing to another bruise just above his right nipple, “Was because I called him a lazy cunt. Totally fucking worth it though.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I bet…”
My voice trails off as I watch him rub the towel over his hair. I have this insane urge to give him a hug and tell him he doesn’t need to worry anymore, that we’ll look out for him. Fuck knows where this maternal feeling has sprung from, but there’s something about the way he’s so strong in his vulnerability that drags out my protective side. This kid’s a fighter in every sense of the word.
“You ain’t seen a kid beat up before, have you?” he asks, reading me well.
“I’ve seen a lot of violence in my life, but you’re right, I haven’t been exposed to violence against minors, at least not by their parents. I’m sorry.”
“Why areyousorry? You didn’t do this.”
“I’m sorry that this happened to you.”
“I don’t want your pity. I just want to learn how to fight.”
“I get that,” I reply, understanding him completely. “You want to protect yourself.”
“I want revenge,” he bites out, anger blazing in his eyes as he fists his fingers.
“I get that too.” Sighing heavily, I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear and frown. “How long has this been going on?”
“My stepdad beating me?”
“Yeah.”
“As long as he’s been with my mum.”
“And what about your mum?”
Ford snorts, flicking his gaze away from mine. “She’s worse,” he whispers out. “They’re both crack addicts. I don’t ever remember my mum being normal.”
“But it took the authorities ten years to get you out?” I ask, my gaze dropping back to his chest and the round puckered scars scattering his skin. Some look suspiciously like cigarette burns, and that anger inside of my chest ignites into an inferno.
“Like I said, social services are fucking useless.”
The bitterness in his voice is hard to deny. I don’t blame him for it, he’s been failed miserably.
“Where did you hear about this place?” I ask, changing the subject.
“The street. People talk,” he shrugs.
“And you just figured you’d show up here and barge your way in?”
“It worked didn’t it?” he says, plonking down on the bench opposite me and giving me a wry smile.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” I say, cocking my head to the side. “But membership starts at one hundred and fifty quid a month, off-peak. Think you can afford that?”
