was why he didn't want his mother to see the paper. It was better for her if she didn't know. Better if she didn't question.
**********
In her new bedroom Hope had pulled a dozen or more items from the wardrobe out and they now lay over her bed or strewn across the floor. It was important to wear the right outfit. She knew that she would be the centre of attention. For once the prospect didn't thrill her. She had to dress with the right amount of propriety. Anything too bright or casual and people would be saying that she didn't care. Anything too dark or sombre and they would be saying she was being dramatic. She knew how small town minds worked.
In the end she wore a purple pants suit. It was over 10 years old and not 'trendy'. She didn't care about trends. She just knew what she liked to wear and what looked good on her. Her wardrobe still had clothes from her modelling days as well as outfits she had bought or made recently. She never threw anything away. It always came back into fashion - or Hope wore it anyway and made it look like it should be back in fashion.
Satisfied with the way she looked she returned to the bathroom. She took out one tranquilizer and cut it in half using her nail file. She popped one half back in the bottle and swallowed the other half, without water, and began applying make-up waiting for the pill to take effect. She was about to throw herself into they baying mob and she couldn't do it completely sober. Besides, she hadn't said she would stop completely. She needed to be in control and 5mg of Mogadon would ensure that she was.
'Oh god, welcome to my sobriety.' Hope said this aloud while looking back at her own reflection in the mirror.
Eleven
Michael woke late on Saturday morning. He lay in bed for a long time, listening for the tell tale noises to see if anyone else was up. When he had decided that they weren't he threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and headed for the kitchen.
The house was deserted. Used cups on the kitchen table and crumbs around the toaster told him that someone had already been up. He had left the kitchen clean last night. There had only been a few forks to wash up after the take-away. The containers were in the bin along with 2 dozen beer cans that his father and brothers had drunk by the time Michael had gone to bed.
It hadn't been a bad night. The rain had lasted most of the night and had been too heavy for either his father of brothers to want to risk the 20 minute drive to their nearest 'local'. They had stayed home instead, getting pissed. His brother's bonging heavily while his father studied the racing form guide preparing himself for his weekend betting spree. 'He was on a winning streak' he had commented to no-one in particular more than once during the evening.
When his father had looked up and asked him, 'How is school going son?'. Michael knew that his father was drunk and probably getting a bit high from the smoke his brothers were deliberately blowing towards him as he read his racing guide unaware.
Michael had replied that it was fine and there was only two weeks to go. He knew his dad didn't really care and was just trying to be friendly. He must be stoned. His dad never cared, unless Michael was in trouble, which had been happening a lot less now that he was in the senior school. Most of the boys had left at the end of last year. Less than a quarter of his year had continued on to the final two years and university entrance exams.
Michael had shocked everyone when he had returned the following year. They all expected him to leave at the first opportunity and start an apprenticeship like his two brothers had, although they had both finished now and were a qualified mechanic and plumber respectively. That's what most of they boys did around here.
His father had told him he could leave if he had a job to go to, if not he could either leave home or stay at school. Michael had chosen to stay on. He had a plan. A plan which no-one but he and his art teacher and the school principal knew about. The principal only knew because he had questioned Michael on his decision to continue and warned him that he would have to settle down.
'The first sign of bullying or fighting and you are out'. He had been warned.
Michael had agreed to settle. Quietly wanting to punch the old bastard in the face. Everyone had the wrong impression of him. True, in his first two years he had earned a reputation as a bully and probably deserved it. Always the ringleader and instigator of the never ending school yard tormenting that was an expected and customary practice. As he grew older and his reputation became cemented he had backed away from this as much as he could, which wasn't easy when his three best mates had continued picking on any boy that was deemed 'different'. He didn't have much choice but to pretend to go along with it.
In the last two years he had been more in trouble for fighting than bullying. What nobody bothered, or wanted, to notice was that the fights had mostly been with older boys and that more often than not Michael got into fights with other known bullies. He never told anyone why he was regularly fighting other boys. He singled out the habitual sadists and sickos who constantly preyed on the most defenseless boys and challenged them. Giving them 'some-one their own size' to have a go at. He rarely lost a fight.
People never saw that. They only saw the school trouble maker with the drunken father involved in another fight. He was used to being condemned without trial.
Only his art teacher had seen his talent and potential. Encouraging him to do what he was good at. Telling him he had a really good chance of getting accepted into Art School if only he would stay on and graduate. He enjoyed art and he knew he was good at it. He enjoyed having someone believe in him for the first time in his life.
He had known it would be difficult but then most of his life had been difficult. He was going to show them all. Show the 'up themselves' parents and doubting teachers that he was a lot better than they thought he was. Show his father and brothers that he was smarter and tougher than they could ever be. Show himself that he was worth something after all. He would do whatever it took to prove himself.
Twelve
'Put the fucking kettle on and make us a brew'. Michael's dad yelled from his bedroom startling Michael back to the real world. Fuck! His dad was still here. Last night's good mood had quickly vanished as his father woke up hungover and thirsty.
Michael flicked the switch on the electric kettle and got the teapot and teabags out. He quickly rinsed the leftover cups and wiped the crumbs away from around the toaster. He wondered why he didn't just go in while the old man was still in bed and smash him over the head with the teapot. Why didn't he have to guts to stand up to him like his brothers did?
He did know. He'd known for a while now. Now that he was almost as tall as his old man, now that he was seventeen and thinking like a man. He wasn't as big as him but he knew that he was a lot faster. He knew that he could put in three or four good punches before his old man could even react. He knew also that once he started he wouldn't stop.
He thought back to the afternoon two, or was it three weeks ago? He couldn't remember. Didn't want to remember. He had blanked most of it out but he could remember how it started.
His father and brother had been having an enormous argument. He couldn't remember over what but it had ended in his brother telling his dad to 'get fucked' and slamming the door as he left. Leaving Michael alone with his drunken father.
He remembered how he had stayed in the kitchen while his father had continued to drunkenly argue with himself in the lounge room. Swearing and thumping his fists on the coffee table. He remembered hearing his father's heavy footsteps coming towards him.
