Seven Days by Eve Ainsworth

it was different in the days when he used to put on a suit and drive to work in his nice car. I think he thought he was above everyone else then. Trouble is, even though he’s not worn his suit for years – even though he spends most days on the sofa – he still thinks he’s different.
    Personally, I don’t mind the towers. They skim the sky, far and reaching. They look like they’re in charge of the place. They are the Estate.
    Jess lives here, in one of these shoebox flats. I know because I’ve seen her shuffling around, trying to avoid us. Marnie says her mum has a really nasty job cleaning bogs in a club in town. Apparently she’s out every night. I guess that must be hard for them.
    I wonder if I’ll see her. If I do, what would I say? Am I sorry? Has this gone too far?
    I start walking away, towards the park. I feel cluttered, like I want to empty everything out of me and start again. I don’t remember ever feeling this tired or confused before.
    I hear the voices first, sharp laughter coming from the main path out of the park. I carry on walking towards it. Whoever it is sounds really happy.
    And then I see them.
    Both of them.
    It’s like everything inside me has just been sucked away. I have to keep looking just to make sure I’m getting it right. But of course there’s little doubt. I know it’s him. Lyn. And how could I miss her?
    They’re walking together. Him and Jess. They are talking and laughing and, Jesus, is his hand touching her waist? It is! He’s touching her!
    I think I want to be sick.
    I think I actually want to kill her now.
    “You bitch,” I hiss under my breath, before slipping away, my hand reaching for my phone, preparing to call Marnie.
     
    I stay with Marnie for as long as I can, but in the end I know I have to go home. I can’t keep hiding away.
    I’m so wound up, so on edge that I walk into the house without thinking too much. The whole thing with Lyn and that stig Jess is still replaying in my head like a nasty dream. The front door shuts loudly behind me before I even realize where I am.
    I slip my bag on to the floor by the wall and carefully place my keys in the small bowl on the side table. There’s a chance of course that he didn’t hear me. He might even be asleep. With any luck I can still escape unnoticed.
    Creeping past an open door in your own house must be the saddest, most tragic thing that anyone ever has to do. I seem to be making a regular habit of it. I hold my breath. I tense up. I just pray with every fibre of me that he doesn’t hear me. But of course, he does.
    “Keren. Come in here, please.” His voice is cool and controlled. I freeze on the spot. I can’t move. It’s like when we used to play musical statues as kids, except this time there’s no fun-size Mars bar at the end.
    “Keren. Come here, please.” The voice is louder now, more brittle.
    I go in. I try and act casual, because what’s the point of being anything else? I keep my face calm, even though the icy feeling of dread is eating me up inside. I can do this. He will not bring me down.
    He is sitting there facing me, perched on the edge of the seat in an upright, awkward position. Mum is sat opposite on the smaller sofa. She’s facing away, scribbling notes on a notepad. Probably her shopping list or something equally dull. Why won’t she look at me?
    And then I see the plate on the coffee table. Sausage and mash. I can see the gravy has congealed around them like a muddy jelly. The sausages look grey and thick with cooling fat. The knife and fork are sat beside them like silent soldiers.
    “Your dinner was three hours ago,” Dad says, still staring at me.
    “I know. I’m sorry. I was held up.”
    “I don’t want to hear that,” he says, his lip curling. “Your dinner was cooked for you three hours ago. You should’ve had the decency to come back for it.”
    I keep my voice neutral; my words come out slow and measured. “Like I said, I was held up. I’m sorry. What