Closer by Maxine Linnell Page B

us tomorrow.” 
    â€œShe needn’t bother,” I say. “I don’t want to see anybody.” After an awkward silence she goes out and shuts the door. 
    I pick up the paintbrush again and slowly paint out all the last bits of white, like filling in the last jigsaw pieces. Now I’m tired, like I’ve been up all night, and I remember I was up most of the night. It feels weeks since last night, weeks since I kissed Raj in the park yesterday afternoon. 
    I rip the paper from the easel, screw it up and lob it into the bin. My hands and arms are covered in wet black paint and I don’t care.

Me 
    Saturday. The day Dad used to have time with each of us. Only a week since. Feels like years. This is too much. I want to think about something else, anything else, anything to stop thinking. I lie in bed for a while watching the marks on the ceiling and they start to make the shape of Dad’s face so I get up. 
    In the shower I’m thinking about him again. What’s he doing? How’s he living with himself? And I’m back when it all started, back looking at Hannah’s journal in her bedroom. “I’LL KILL HIM ONE DAY FOR WHAT HE’S DONE TO ME”. 
    I stand in the bath with the shower pouring over me, knowing how to stop it all. It’s so obvious. 
    When I get downstairs Mum’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table with her hands round a mug of tea, like she’s cold, like it’s winter when the sun’s already scorching down. She looks up when I go in. 
    â€œYou’re early. It’s only nine.” She doesn’t want me here. 
    â€œCouldn’t sleep.” I grab a box of orange juice from the fridge and a glass. I pour the juice, half a glass, and sit down. 
    â€œBy the way,” she says. When Mum says by the way she means there’s something important she wants to say and she’s been holding off from saying it. I’m not stupid. And I’m not going to help her out here. I sip the orange juice and keep my head down. 
    â€œYour dad’s coming over for a visit this afternoon. Just for an hour. Two thirty.” 
    I look up. “He’ll miss the match.” 
    â€œYes,” she says, and a smile crosses her face for a second. “I’ll be there all the time. I know it’s going to be difficult.” 
    Difficult. Too right. 
    â€œWhat are we supposed to do? Talk about the weather?” 
    She sighs. “I don’t know, Mel. This has never happened to me before.” 
    â€œThat’ll be a first then. You usually know the answer to everything.” 
    She goes quiet for a minute. 
    I keep going. “And anyway, this hasn’t happened to you. It’s happened to me, and to Hannah. Did anyone ask Hannah or me if we wanted Dad to come over? Did they?” 
    â€œGeorge needs to see him. He’s been asking all week.” 
    â€œGoodie for George. You can’t make me see him.” 
    â€œMel, this isn’t like you.” 
    â€œNo, don’t suppose it is.” 
    â€œYou don’t have to see him. He’s going to be here, that’s all.” 
    She gets up and puts her mug in the dishwasher, then goes out. 
    I look at the juice for a while then throw the rest away and leave the glass on the table. 
    The knife’s in the drawer by the sink. Dad called it Slasher. It’s got a long blade, thin and narrow, with a sharp point at the end. Dad liked it for carving. He’d stand at the table with the chicken or whatever and wave Slasher about a bit, making death and destruction noises, then when he knew everyone was looking at him he’d hold it with both hands and stab it into the chicken, like it was a wild boar or something. Like he was some