My Dad's a Policeman Read Online Free Page B

all right, son?’ Mum asked.
    ‘Na.’ I went to the sofa and sat down. The room span and there were funny jazzy patterns on the walls. ‘Don’t feel so good,’ I mumbled.
    ‘I’ll get you a hot sweet drink,’ she said. ‘You eaten?’
    ‘Na.’
    ‘I’ll get you something.’
    I stayed on the sofa, trying to steady the room. There was still a faint smell of smoke from where the blanket had caught fire on Mum’s bed the night before. A few minutes later Mum returned with a mug of hot chocolate and a packet of biscuits. ‘Thanks,’ I said, taking a gulp. It tasted good. Mum makes the best hot chocolate: she puts in extra milk and sugar. She sat next to me on the sofa while I sipped the hot chocolate and ate the biscuits. I began to feel a bit better.
    ‘Does your foster carer know you’re here?’ Mum asked, rubbing her hand across her forehead.
    ‘No. And I’m not going back.’
    Mum didn’t say anything and I was hurt. I wanted her to say, ‘Of course you’re not going back, son. You’re staying here with me. Over my dead body will they take you away again!’ But she didn’t. She took a crumpled tissue from the sleeve of her jumper and blew her nose; then she stared at the floor.
    ‘Mum,’ I said, turning to look at her. ‘Did you hear me? I’m not going back.’
    She looked up at me, and her brow furrowed. ‘You have to, son. They’ll come and get you if you don’t. It’s for the best.’
    ‘For the best! What are you talking about?’ I heard my voice rise and I was starting to feel hot like I do when I get angry. ‘How can you say that? I’m your son. This is my home. And what were you doing sending my clothes and keeping my mobile?’
    She began to cry louder, racking sobs that made her body shake. I felt sorry for her but, at the same time, I felt more sorry for me; I was the one being chucked out of my home, not her. ‘They said if I did what they wanted,’ she said between sobs, ‘you and Tommy could go into care under a Section 20, so I would still have parental rights. They said if I didn’t cooperate they would get a full care order from the court and I’d lose all say in your care. The social would become your legal parents. So I signed the forms and packed your clothes like they told me. Duffy said it wasn’t a good idea for you to have your mobile, so I left it on the bed.’
    Although Mum was obviously upset, what she said sounded all too easy to me – cooperating with social services and signing me over. I was her son, not some parcel being delivered to the door. What I wanted to hear was her fighting for me, yelling at the social that she’d never let her kids go into care, then chucking the social workers out of the house. But of course Mum couldn’t do that: she takes the easy way out – usually from the bottle. I was getting hotter and angrier.
    Mum turned towards me, her cheeks stained with tears, and went to put her arms around me. I saw the empty bottle on the floor beside her, the stains on her clothes and the hopelessness in her face, and my anger grew.
    ‘It’s your fault!’ I yelled. ‘Your fault we’re in this mess. Look at the state you’re in! No wonder my dad didn’t stick around . . .’
    ‘Your dad?’ she yelled back in disbelief. ‘Your dad? Whatever has he done for you?’
    ‘At least he hasn’t messed up like you. You’re a fucking disgrace. They gave you a chance to get off the booze, but you couldn’t! You put that bloody bottle before your kids. You don’t deserve us!’ Before I could stop myself I’d kicked the bottle and it crashed against the wall. I turned and was about to kick the sofa when a loud knock sounded on the front door. I froze.
    I stared at Mum and she stared back. She looked like a hunted animal – trapped and frightened. ‘Who can that be at this time?’ she whispered. The knock came again, louder and more insistent.
    I stepped from the living room, into the short hall, with Mum by my side. Framed in the