You wake up drenched in cold sweat. The bedclothes are dripping, and you realise that you’ve wet yourself. Your favourite pyjamas, the ones with the little footballs, are spoilt. You close your eyes, ashamed.
Another nightmare. This one, about a big, hungry fire that tackled your house, sent everything you owned to the land of cinders. You let out a whimper, looking around. Your favourite teddy bear is lying next to you; tranquil. Your room is intact, the walls as damp as ever. This comforts you. The fire didn’t smother dampness with crackling ash.
The fire didn’t happen. It was all just a dream.
But, still, you are feeling uneasy. You pull your thin blanket around your body, squeezing into your school plimsolls. You have to find Daddy. He will make it better. He will probably scold you for being a coward, because big boys don’t cry. But you can deal with that. As long as he is there.
You venture out of your room, finding yourself in the small corridor, packed full with boxes. Daddy had insisted on cramming the whole flat in to those boxes. When you asked why, he had stomped his foot on the ground, making the whole Earth shake. He muttered something about the landlord being a-
He said a bad word then, didn’t he? You covered your ears, because bad words are naughty. Teacher had said so. But afterwards Daddy said sorry, sorry, and pulled you into his grip.
“I’ll get you out of this,” he whispered into your ear. “I promise.”
But that conversation was a long time ago, maybe last week. And you still don’t understand why those boxes are there. You wade through them, wondering whether to go in to the kitchen or Daddy’s room first. Once, Daddy shouted at you for going in to his room, so you opt for the kitchen.
You push the door open, but it’s empty. The single chair that sits by the table is vacant; cold. There is a chocolate wrapper on the floor, and instinctively you pick it up; lick the remains of chocolate out. You haven’t had chocolate in a long time, and wonder why Daddy didn’t bother sharing his.
You drop the wrapper back on the floor, because the bin is overflowing and it smells bad. You don’t want to touch it. Taking one last looking at the greyish walls, you leave, deciding that you will have to look in Daddy’s room after all.
It is dark in his room, and that frightens you. The curtains are closed, and the shadows creep up the walls, threatening to gobble you up. You reach for the light switch, but it’s too high up. Even when you stretch your arm so much that you are sure it will snap, you can’t reach it. You whimper again, calling to Daddy over and over. He doesn’t reply.
You are very scared now. Your nightmare whispers to you with every step you take. It caresses you with its nasty, burning fingers.
And Daddy’s not here to make it better.
There’s nowhere else to look for him. You don’t have a ‘living room’, like Mickey does. Mickey is your friend from school, but he lives in a big house, with two whole floors. You don’t understand why Mickey’s house is so much bigger than yours. Why it smells of flowers and soap, while yours smells of toilet.
You have an idea then, to see if Daddy is in the toilet down the hall. You have to share your toilet with a lot of people. Those people scare you, don’t they? They shout sometimes; red eyed and fierce. You bumped in to one of them once, and he hit you. Hard. Daddy punched him right back in the face. Swore at him in a very scary voice. You watched the whole thing, wanting to cry. Not because of your arm – even though that stung, and continued to sting for days afterwards - but because you were afraid. Afraid that the man would hurt your daddy. You don’t remember how it happened, but in the end things turned out fine; the horrid man ended up on the floor, and you and Daddy ran back home.
You’ve never been to the toilet by yourself. Daddy never let you; and after that occasion you had no intention to. But today is different.
You make your way to the front door, standing on your very tiptoes to open the latch. You’ve seen Daddy do it enough times to know how to do it yourself. It opens after some fumbling, and you pull on the door until the gap is wide enough for you to slide through. Still on your tiptoes, you scurry down the dank hall. Voices echo from wall to wall; footsteps pound above you, below you. You pass an old, shrivelled man, fast asleep on the ground with his mouth wide open. A cigarette butt clings dotingly to his bottom lip.
Finally, you reach the toilet door. You wander in, only to be screamed at by a bunch of girls. You run out, embarrassed. The girl’s toilet is no place for a boy. Your eyes have misled you. The men’s toilet is next door.
You push open the heavy door, confronted by the ritual stench. You cover your nose, scanning the urinals. There are a few men in there, but none of them Daddy. You’re too scared to ask if they have seen him, so you walk back out.
You wonder what to do next. He’s nowhere to be found. You run halfway down the corridor before, to your mortification, you begin to cry. You’re scared. You’ve wet yourself again. You’re in a mess. But no one cares. So you limp home in your too-tight shoes.
A woman waits by your door. She is smart, her hair tied up in a tight, official, bun. She is wearing a starched suit; and her expression is one of disgust. She doesn’t belong here. She spots you as you get closer, but she makes no move. When you get really close she kneels down, and her face - stitched tightly together - loosens. You feel embarrassed. Daddy always told you to look smart in front of ladies, and here you are, urine clinging to your pyjama bottoms. She smiles at you, but her face remains sharp. You’re not sure about her.
“Are you Charlie Prong?”
You nod.
“Do you know a certain Eddie?”
“That’s my daddy’s name,” you stutter, wondering how this tangy smelling woman knows the both of you. Maybe she’s your mummy, the one who ‘upped up and left’ when you were small. But before you can open your mouth to ask, the woman speaks again.
“Well, my name is Jenna, and I’m from the Social Services. We think we got a call from your daddy. He wants you to come with us.”
