Chapter 3
ALEX
The sound of rap music filled my ears as I walked up to my house.
It wasn’t anything special - just a narrow concrete path with grass forcing its way through every crack, spilling over the edges like it was trying to escape.
All the houses on this road had the same setup.
All attached. Close enough to hear your neighbours breathe.
But most of them looked a bit better kept than ours.
Movement flickered in the corner of my eye.
Miss Truman.
She was peeking through her curtain again, face twisted like she’d smelled something rotten. I didn’t blame her. Connor had the speakers turned up so loud the windows practically vibrated. She probably hadn’t slept properly in days.
Everyone on the road knew what he did. You couldn’t live here and not know. But none of them said anything. They weren’t snitches - not because they were loyal, but because they liked the perks. Cheaper weed. Favourable deals. A bit of protection by association.
Even Miss Truman, with her sour face and her twitching curtains, liked a joint or two when she thought no one was looking.
She narrowed her eyes at me before letting the curtain fall back into place.
I sighed and kept walking, hands shoved deep in my pockets. The bass thumped through the walls, rattling the air around me.
Typical Connor - loud enough to make sure the whole street knew he was home.
I let out a deep sigh and put my key in the door.
Smoke curled through the air as I walked in. A blanket of fog I was far too used to. A mixture of tobacco and weed.
The floor groaned beneath my feet as I passed the living room.
The house was always like this - dingy, dimly lit, everything a little tired. Even the walls felt worn out, stained a copper colour from all the smoke. But the flash of the TV lit up the room in pulses, bright enough to catch my mum’s face on the couch.
“You alright, love?” Mum said, catching my eyes as she took a slow drag from her joint.
She looked tired - properly tired - the kind of tired that sat under her skin and never lifted. The bags under her eyes were permanent now. But she was done up, which told me everything I needed to know. Pub or Casino. Probably both.
Thick black eyeliner smudged at the corners.
Mascara clumped on her lashes. Bright pink lipstick smeared at the edges, marking the end of her joint as she sucked on it.
Her jet-black hair, usually curled a bit at the ends, had been straightened flat.
The big silver hoops in her ears swayed as she turned back toward the man sitting beside her.
“This is my youngest, Alex,” she said, passing him the joint like it was nothing.
“Alright, Alex,” the man said.
He was older than Mum. A lot older. Late fifties, maybe even pushing sixty. Shaved head, a white vest that had definitely seen better days, and tattoos that had faded into that murky green colour old ink gets when it’s been done in someone’s kitchen instead of a studio.
I didn’t bother asking who he was. Mum had a habit of picking up strays from the pub - men who needed somewhere to sit, or drink, or crash for a night. Always a new boyfriend. Never one that lasted.
He gave me a nod like we were supposed to bond over something. I just nodded back and kept my face blank.
The TV flickered across the room, lighting up the peeling wallpaper. Mum laughed at something the man whispered to her, leaning into him like she’d known him longer than a few hours.
“Where’s Connor?” I asked, ignoring the way the man’s eyes drifted down to my mum’s low-cut vest top and the bright pink bra she clearly hadn’t bothered to hide.
“Kitchen,” she said, barely looking at me before turning back toward him.
And then she started kissing the stranger.
Great.
I looked away fast, before the image of them mushing faces could get permanently burned into my brain. Mum never picked good guys. Not once.
Love had never been easy for her - she was always chasing it in all the wrong places, chasing highs that never lasted. The men latched onto her for the drugs, the warmth, the way she made everyone feel welcome. But most of them bailed before they got too comfortable.
She was desperate. A placeholder. But she didn’t care. She never did.
I swallowed, that familiar heaviness settling in my chest. This was normal. Too normal. Another stranger. Another night. Another reminder that Mum was always looking for something - comfort, distraction, attention - in places that only ever left her emptier.
The TV flickered across the room, lighting up the scarred wallpaper as the bass from Connor’s music thumped through the ceiling. Mum laughed into the stranger’s mouth like she didn’t have two kids in the house. Like she didn’t have anything to lose.
I turned away, jaw tight, and headed for the kitchen.
The bass thumped louder the closer I got to the kitchen door. It rattled through the floorboards, through my ribs, through the walls that had been patched up too many times to count.
The door itself… yeah. It had been replaced more times than I wanted to remember. Connor had a temper, and when he lost it, the house usually paid the price. This one didn’t match the skirting at all - darker wood, cheaper, already scarred with dents and small holes from his fists.
My stomach twisted at the memory of the last time he’d put one there. I’d been too close. Close enough to feel the air move when he swung.
I shuddered and forced the thought away, reaching for the handle gingerly.
The metal was cold, the kind of cold that made your fingers tense. I pushed the door open slowly, praying it wouldn’t creak, praying he wouldn’t already be in a mood.
My hand curled around the money in my pocket, fingertips pressing into the notes like I could count them through the fabric. I’d already checked it - twice - back at the bonfire. It was dark, but I could see enough to know the ￡200 was there.
I knew I’d counted it right. I knew it was all there.
But standing only a few metres from Connor, knowing his mood could flip like a switch, doubt crawled up my spine anyway.
Because if it wasn’t right… it wouldn’t be the house paying the price this time. It would be me.
Connor was better than me in every way that mattered in a fight - taller, broader, stronger. He filled a room without even trying. I barely filled a doorway.
He was sitting on the counter in grey tracksuit bottoms and a black vest top, arms thick and defined from boxing. If he wasn’t dealing, he was training. If he wasn’t training, he was at the gym.
His reputation wasn’t just talk - people were genuinely scared of him. I’d heard the stories. Everyone had. Stories about fights that went too far, about people ending up in hospital, about him doing whatever it took to make sure no one disrespected him again.
Spike looked up at me from where he was slouched against the fridge, joint in hand, like he was part of the furniture.
He basically was. He’d been in juvie with Connor, and they’d stuck together ever since.
People thought his nickname came from his spiky blond hair, but it was really because he carried a spiked knuckleduster everywhere he went.
“Alright, little A,” Spike said with a smirk.
I nodded back, keeping my face neutral.
“You got my money?” Connor’s voice cut through the room - deep, sharp, impossible to ignore.
I nodded quickly and rummaged through my pocket, emptying everything onto the counter. The notes were rolled tight, slightly crumpled from being squeezed in my fist the whole walk home.
Connor’s eyes stayed locked on mine until he started counting. My heart stuttered with every flick of his thumb.
It was all there. It had to be.
He finished counting and looked up again, expression unreadable.
“What are you still doing here?” he said, eyebrows furrowed. “Get your ass to bed.”
I didn’t need telling twice. I turned immediately. There was no point arguing - I hated confrontation, and I wasn’t built for it anyway. I was scrawny, barely able to do a push-up, and Connor… wasn’t.
“Wait.”
His voice stopped me cold. My throat tightened as I turned back slowly, trying not to show how much he got to me. He already knew I was scared.
His gold tooth caught the kitchen light as he spoke.
“Take this.”
He shoved a ￡20 note into my palm, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Thanks,” I said quickly, barely above a whisper, before hurrying out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
I didn’t breathe properly until my bedroom door was shut behind me.
I crouched down beside my bed and pulled out the old biscuit tin I’d kept hidden under there for years. The metal was cold against my fingers as I lifted the lid and slipped the ￡20 note inside, flattening it neatly on top of the others before pushing the tin right back into the shadows.
My secret. My escape plan.
I’d been saving for university for as long as I could remember. I didn’t know how I’d get there, or what I’d study, or how I’d afford the rest once I arrived - but I was going. One way or another.
I knew Connor wouldn’t be alright with it. He’d probably do everything he could to stop me. It was hard enough convincing him to let me start sixth form, but luckily enough for me, it’s mandatory in the UK to stay in education until you’re eighteen.
He believed the world wasn’t made for people like us, and maybe he was right in some ways… but I had to try. I couldn’t stay here forever. I couldn’t become him. Or Spike. Or any of the people who drifted in and out of this house like ghosts.
That’s why I picked up the job at the off-licence on the posh side of town. It wasn’t much - stacking shelves, sweeping floors, dealing with customers who looked at me like I didn’t belong there - but it was money. Honest money. Mine .
Every shift got me a little closer to leaving. Every note in that tin felt like a step away from this house. From Connor. From the noise. From the strangers on the sofa. From the version of life everyone here seemed resigned to.
I pushed the tin further back, until it hit the wall, and let out a slow breath.
One day, I’d get out.
One day, I’d be more than this.