Soul to Take Read Online Free Page A

Since you’re ’ome, love, would you mind watchin’ Jack while I ’ave a bath? My back’s killin’ me,” and with that she departs leaving her two children watching television.
    “Have you sorted her, Stacey?” Shannon hears from the hallway.
    “Yeah, somethin’ an’ nothin’, Rob,” her mother dismisses.
    “Somethin’ an’ nothin’? Is that it? I get called away from a big decoratin’ job, embarrassed in front of her Head of Year and she’s sittin’ watchin’ Upsy fuckin’ Daisy ? Not bloody likely,” Rob is still exploding as he comes into the lounge.
    “If your mother isn’t going to say nothin’ then I am,” Rob stands, towering over the teenager, “I’m sick of it Shannon. You think this family revolves around you. You can’t behave yourself at school. You can’t behave yourself at home.”
    “Behaving? That’s rich coming from you, ” Shannon retorts then adds in a much lower voice, “I’ve ’eard them talking about you, you know.” She stands up, brushes past him and runs up the stairs. Rob is lost for words and Jack continues to sing with Iggle Piggle, entirely unaware that he is now under the watch of his third guardian in as many minutes.
    Having tested the strength of every floor board across the landing, Shannon slams her door with a force that shakes the whole house. She flops on to her bed and reaches under to grab a laptop. It has not been switched off since this morning and one press of a button reignites a colourful screen which is host to a multitude of miniature photographs and row upon row of black words. Shannon begins to type. The white box she is filling reads, “SHANNON CHILD: dad jus had benny bout naff all had enuf whos up 4 gettin wasted tonite?"
    The bait is set and it is not long before a select few of Shannon’s hundreds of electronic ‘friends’ - who by now will be on the school bus home reacquainting themselves with their stowaway mobile ’phones - enquire about her emotional wellbeing. Finally she satisfies her appetite for moaning, for berating authority and above all, for being the object of other people’s care and concern.
     
     
     

 
    SARAH
     
    “So why exactly is it that when I press the calorie counter and it says I’ve burnt off the equivalent of say, an apple, the last thing I fancy eating is a piece of fruit?”
    “So have the chocolate, Sarah. I don’t care; I love you just the way you are,” comes the reply she would have predicted but doesn’t want to hear.
    Nonetheless, Sarah’s attempt at a smile is an effort to appreciate Tim’s compliment, albeit clichéd. But from what I’ve seen, it’s not helping much. She lies, stretched along the entire length of the brown, leather sofa and rolls, with a groan, to reach the remote control on the floor. Clutching it tightly, a ‘V’ shape slowly descends on Sarah’s brow as her eyes focus on the television screen. The One Show provides temporary absorption from the real worries of the day. An article on which seeds to sow in your greenhouse at this time of year is almost interesting.
    “Do you want the usual Sarah?” Tim checks as he grabs his wallet from its usual spot on the coffee table.
    “U-huh,” she dismisses before pausing the TV and watching Tim saunter down the driveway. When he is absolutely out of sight, Sarah dashes up the stairs, quicker than I’ve seen her move all day, goes into the bedroom and grabs a white paper bag, which she unwraps during the journey across the landing. The bathroom door is firmly shut and locked as Sarah sits on the closed toilet seat.
    Shaking fingers fumble with a cellophane cover, then a cardboard box. Sarah unfolds an instruction sheet and makes a photocopy in her head; instant recognition and familiarity mean that there’s no need to read properly but she scans it just the same. In this private game of pass-the-parcel, a foil envelope gives way to the Holy Grail. The truth teller. The life changer.
    Sarah lifts the toilet lid