All The Lonely People - David Owen Page 0,10

– he had failed almost all of them so far.

‘What kind of mother am I if the only way we can pay bills is for my son to work?’

‘Jordan did.’

Mum stiffened. ‘That was different.’

It was clear then that if he didn’t ask she would try and hide it from him for as long as she could.

‘When were you going to tell me he was back?’

Mum sighed, like she’d been caught stealing. ‘Dave and his big bloody mouth.’

‘After two years I think I have a right to know.’

‘You’re right. I just . . .’ Mum unhooked her keys from behind the door and squeezed them in her fist. ‘It was last week, and I still need some time to think about it. Don’t let him inside if he turns up.’

‘What did he—?’

‘I’m going to be late, we can talk about this later,’ she said, pocketing the keys. ‘Evie needs dinner, there’s stuff in the freezer. Love you.’

She reached out to ruffle his hair, but Wesley ducked away. ‘Fuck!’ he growled, as soon as she was gone.

‘Wezzer?’ Evie was marooned in the doorway to their bedroom.

‘It’s okay, Eves. Sorry about the shouting.’ Wesley’s promise to himself that he’d always keep his temper around his four-year-old half-sister had been harder to keep than expected.

She was spattered with paint, the result of this month’s hobby that had covered her wall of the bedroom they shared in bright, messy finger-paintings. She marched over to him, one strap of her dungarees broken and flapping, and he opened his arms for a hug. Instead she presented him with her copy of Frozen on DVD.

‘You know what would be fun?’ Wesley said, making his voice light. ‘Watching any other movie ever made.’

Evie pouted; it was a losing argument. As soon as he set the film playing for the millionth time she began to run miniature laps of the cramped sitting room, burbling vaguely about building a snowman.

Mum having work meant food in the cupboards and money on the electricity key, so Wesley knew he shouldn’t complain about babysitting duty. It was being stuck in the flat that really bothered him: the smell of the bins drifting up from downstairs, the rattle of commuter trains passing on the bridge, the peeling wallpaper by the TV and the wall behind it bruised yellow by previous tenants’ cigarette smoke. The patch of damp in their bedroom had blackened and spread over summer, and he was getting worried it would soon gain sentience and eat them in the night.

It was a shithole. It was also the first place they had lived where they didn’t have to worry about somebody kicking them out in the night. Home, no matter how grim. Wesley was proud of that.

Still, it was lonely. As much as he loved her, a four-year-old wasn’t the kind of company he wanted. Hours could feel unending if he didn’t find something to fill them. He took out his phone and opened YouTube. There were some new TrumourPixel let’s play videos, showing off his shooter skills.

‘What’s up, guys?’ the first video began. ‘Once again we’re on the hunt for a delicious chicken dinner.’

TrumourPixel wasn’t the best YouTuber out there. It was mainly video game let’s plays, with a few prank videos thrown in. He didn’t have the best equipment, which meant his face in the bottom corner of the screen was always a little blurred. What Wesley liked was that Tru was local, had grown up in all the same places he had, so he understood what it was like. It made him easier to trust.

‘The latest patch has slightly nerfed the fire rate of the SCAR assault rifle, but I can still kick ass with it.’ TrumourPixel gunned down three advancing enemies in succession and whooped with delight. ‘You see that? A whole squad of women! That’s why they shouldn’t be allowed to play. Fucking bitches.’ He moved his character to stand over their bodies and teabagged them, crouching and standing repeatedly until somebody else started shooting at him.

Watching these videos was almost like having someone to sit and play with himself. Half an hour bursts of company. Sometimes Wesley imagined them being friends. Maybe they would be, when Tru learned what they had done to Kat.

The video finished, TrumourPixel giving his trademark sign-off: ‘The fight never stops.’ Wesley’s stomach rumbled. The smell of damp seemed to grow stronger again. No matter how many videos he watched, sometimes he just needed to escape.

‘Eves,’ he called. ‘Fancy a McDonald’s?’

After Suzy went to