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Oi, oi. Anybody home? Only me. I don’t answer. It’s Uncle Brian. I know 'cause he’s the only one who uses the back door, only one who uses the mat to stamp out his feet. He comes in and fills the kettle, swearing at our dodgy taps. Then he rifles through the kitchen drawers. There’s never a fucking spoon when you need one. The kettle hisses to a stop. Then clink, clink, clink against the side of a mug. He comes and finds me in the living room. You alright? How’s school? God, the weather’s pissy, innit? I look up. Big bulging walnut arms, mint polo shirt, dark denim like a second skin. His chin’s bobbly like cauliflower, thick stubble sprinkled all over his shiny bonce. He perches his bulky behind on the sofa, his stomach swollen like he’s preggers. He’s got one of them big checked bags with him.

‘Your Aunt Jan went and did a load for you two. Come help me pair these socks.’

You always listen to Uncle Brian. He used to box, like properly in a ring, real hard nut.

‘They’re all the same bloody colour. How am I s’pposed to pair ’em up?’

I shrug, staring at the big woolly pile in his hands.

‘And I only count seven here. One must’ve gone swimming.’

I give him a look. I wonder if he’s back on the bottle. His chunky shoulders judder as he laughs.

‘When me and your Mum were little, your Gran used to say odd socks went swimming. Went down with the pipes, gone for a paddle.’

Old Gran liked a drink and all.

‘She was a nutter your Gran though.’

He laughs which turns into a hacking cough like he’s gonna bring up a lung. When Mum gets back, he doesn’t stop to talk to her. He just slips me a tenner. Don’t buy sweets. Don’t give it to your mum. I nod and get back to the telly. I hear the back door click softly, the scraping of the wheelie bin across the drive, him bellowing at the kids in the alley that they need to naff off home.

Monday. Mum’s coked up on the sofa. She’s been up all night watching game shows. My school bag is open and my ruler is all dusty. Powder is sprinkled all over the table like it’s a sponge cake. Mum’s huddled in a ball in the corner, her arms holding on to her knees for dear life. Mum’s dead skinny, like when she’s walking round in her bra you can see her ribs like piano keys. She’ll smoke and glug on Coke (the other kind) and bring in takeaways when she’s got the munchies. She’ll eat egg fried rice with her hands if she’s hungry enough. Mum, I’m off. She don’t move, don’t say nothing. Her greasy hair hangs round her face like dog’s ears. Before I leave I pour her a pint of water and put a bucket by the sofa in case she needs to chuck.

When I get to school, them poor Asian kids are getting laid into by Dean Myers. He’s just jealous 'cause most of them have two parents, nice houses with fake pillars and velvety curtains. His house is back by the playing fields. I always see his dad down the Spar, right old munter; tattoos like they’ve been drawn on with biro, teeth sprouting out his head like roof tiles. When I walk past, Dean sees my collar all covered in sugar from the doughnut I had for breakfast. Been snorting some of mummy’s blow? My dad saw your mum down The Nag’s Head on Sunday. She was well chalked up. Crackhead. Girls stand around him, skirts so short you can see their pants. I turn around. Well, at least my mum ain’t a dirty slag like yours. In a flash, he grabs me by my collar and throws me to the floor. All I see is sky and pavement. The girls scream like they’re on a rollercoaster. Mr Langer sees us and tells us to pack it in. He don’t get close 'cause all the teachers are too scared nowadays, what with knives and shit like that. Dean’s a warning away from an ASBO so does as he’s told.

When I get home from school, Uncle Brian is in the living room folding my football stuff, watching some soap on the telly. You watch this? Load of rubbish. His fingers are all bruised like mouldy sausages. He keeps holding up Mum’s smalls and squinting. When he finds a random sock, he throws it at my face. It’s one of mine, hole in the big toe. I roll it into my palm.

‘So where do these socks swim to?’

Uncle Brian’s got a big grin on.

‘Majorca. Nice this time of year.’

Whatever. I throw the odd sock in the basket, and he comes upstairs with me to put stuff away. We find Mum asleep in the bathtub, her legs hanging out the side at right angles. She smells of piss and she’s vommed all over her jeans. Uncle Brian puts the shower on. She’s cussing and jumping around like a cat what’s on fire. You’re a fucking disgrace. Get out! Get out of my house! Your house? You’d do well to remember it’s his bloody house too! He storms out, face like he’s chewing wasps. I bend down next to Mum. I wipe her face then curl her hair around her ears. She falls back asleep. I’m not going to be able to move her so I put a pillow under her head, watch as a circle of drool casts a shadow under her chin.

Friday. Dean’s been gunning for me big time. Monday he cornered me outside the gate, his bony fingers poking at my chest, jutting his chin out with every word. Now we’re in Langer’s class, he’s sat at the back with his poxy mates and starts talking crap about my mum. Hag. Loser. My dad says she’ll be dead by next year. My teeth grind into each other like they’re gonna shatter. I throw my Diary of Anne Frank at him and it clips his ear, he bends over milking it for all its worth. Boys! I’ll not have that kind of behaviour in here. Dean’s faking it big time, tears and all. I charge at his desk, pinning him to the wall. Langer’s eyes glow all angry. You. Enough. I’ve had it up to here with thugs like you. Get out of my classroom. His voice pulsates off the walls. Wanker! I grab my bag, flinging the door shut hoping the glass will smash. Then I run.

I’ve got nowhere else to go but home. I sit in the kitchen, cold and still, the hum of the fridge keeping me company. I sit there until the sky turns navy and the street lamps come on. About five, there’s a huge clatter out front. Come out you. I want to talk to you. I look out the living room window and it’s Dean Myers’ dad, all gold chains and cheapo leather jacket screaming down our letter box. You little bastard. I’ll have you. I go stand in the kitchen, my heart thumping in my ears. Then a figure by the back door. Dean. It’s too late. He jimmies the lock. Dad! In here! Dean throws himself on top of me, his dad swaggering in behind. I try and kick Dean where it hurts but he’s twisting my arms round, rubbing my face against our minging kitchen floor. You’ve got some nerve messing with my boy. His dad grabs handfuls of my school jumper and shoves my back against the wall, his nails poke into my neck, spit foams out the corners of his mouth. My tongue’s poker straight, gasping for air, my toes skim the floor. Tell him Dad. Tell him his mum’s a junkie bitch.

But he doesn’t get the chance. I collapse to the floor in a big heap. Then all I see is Dean Myers’ dad go right through the kitchen table, its legs snapping like chopsticks. My eyes scan up big dark denim legs. Out. Now.

I back out into the hallway, hands cupped over my ears. Dean legs it out of there. Voices roar crazy loud. Fists flying square. Blood. I can’t catch my breath. Dean’s dad can’t run quick enough. The back door slams and I swear the kitchen chairs jump about. He goes over to the kitchen sink and grabs at it like he’s gonna rip it out. Then he storms past me, pounds up the stairs, heavy feet making the floorboards rattle. I sit on the bottom step and hear him going mentalist, going through drawers, ripping shit off the walls. Then he stops. He knows. He stands at the top of the stairs and looks down at me. Then he sits, resting his hairy knuckles on his forehead. How long she been gone? Tears grow fat in the corners of my eyes then fall into black patches on my school trousers. My face is all warm snot and tears that I wipe down my sleeves. I stare out the front door, out at the sky. The same sky I look at every night as I’ve been sat here, waiting. Weeks. I’m half expecting him to clobber me. But he just sits there and closes his eyes. Then I hear him. Breathing light, moaning; bulky old Uncle Brian crying into his hands, tears leaking out the cracks of his fingers. I go and hang an arm off him. He squeezes it hard, mumbles words I can’t make out, drenches my shoulders. We sit there for an age. Until the house is pitch black and the fridge hums a different tune.

After a while, he gets up and starts sifting through the house clutching a Tesco bag. He opens all the cabinets, starts ripping through mattresses, going through books and biscuit tins. He empties the bin and claws at greying chicken bones and crusty old chips, he goes in the cupboard under the stairs and throws the iron at the wall leaving a great big hole, paint flaking to the floor like dandruff. He finds it all; all her hiding places, her secret stashes. Then he tells me to lock up and wait outside. His dark green Citroën is out there, seats light grey and squeaky under your bum. He don’t say nothing as he starts the car up, just hands me the bag. We drive down to the end of George Street by the factories. The roads are dead around there, walls smothered in flyers, some random kids revving up scooters, lots of cats with stubby tails. The street lights flicker, make my eyes sting well bad. Uncle Brian just drives, veins popping out his arms as if they’ve got electricity running through them.

When the car stops, we’re on a bridge over the canal. We get out and Uncle Brian scrambles in the darkness for some old bricks. He puts them in the bag then chucks the whole thing in. You hear the splash like someone bombing in a pool then small bubbles fizz up in the water, boggy like oil. Then nothing. Uncle Brian leans over the bridge for a while, then cracks his neck from side to side, grasping tight over the railings. He then reaches for his fags in his breast pocket, lights one up. The small red dot at the end lights up his face before it clouds over. I got a phone call from your school. Said you got into a fight then scarpered. I nod but stare down at my hands, picking at the skin around my nails. Was that the little shit then? He looks at me, like right in the eye.

‘I’m not angry. Deep down I know you’re a good kid.’

He don’t stop looking at me. My eyes fill up so I just keep my head down, digging my trainers into the dirt. I catch the reflection of our heads in the water, like we ain’t got bodies. I think about that bag, sinking down to the bottom. Gone.

‘Will that stuff be alright down there?’

He peers over and flicks the rest of his cigarette in.

‘Should be. I don’t know. It’s not like anyone goes swimming down there.’

I look down at the still water.

‘Only the socks.’

He turns to me then does a big hacking laugh, coughing out puffs of cold air. He pushes my shoulder all playful but with his arms I’m lucky I don’t fall in that canal too. We then walk back to the car and set off, him swearing at the gearstick when it won’t go into first. He turns the corner on to the main road, and I watch the little white lines zip past under the car, warm orange lights blurring everything along the way.

KRISTEN BAILEY, 29, is originally from the UK but currently lives in Singapore. She spends up to 10 hours a week writing but is frequently distracted by a four-year-old sofa-hurdler and a one-year-old drawer-emptier, or the pull of Facebook. She was runner-up in the Miss Write Competition 2007 run by Waterstone's and Little, Brown Books, and won Expat Living’s (Singapore) Inaugural Short Story Competition.

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