Disappearing Home by Deborah Morgan

back from the pawn shop. Everything’s okay.
    Dad drinks anything. Mum drinks cider. When he’s nice-drunk, like he is now, his face grows kinder the way it once started out. He jumps in with the words before the singer, pointing and laughing at the speakers like they can see him, making it a competition he always wins. Then, the needle gets stuck. The same word is sung over and over again, like it’s in an argument and not being heard. Just for a moment, his face is back to the way it was.
    I race to the record player, lift the arm and flip it up, like a dog’s paw. You can blow on the needle, to clean it. I like to pinch away the soft Brillo pad of fluff. The scratch of the needle, as I ease it onto the record followed by the smooth, smoochy voice, makes everything okay again. I’ve jumped the arm too far ahead and words are missing. He doesn’t notice. He’s not interested any more.
    He pulls Mum up close to dance. She rests her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He tries to lift her at a high point in the song. She laughs a forced, dusty laugh that blows itself out before it gets warm.
    Mostly, I steal glances. When they get drunk I can look for longer. Sometimes when they are really drunk, they fall. End up with cut heads and black eyes. Drink takes away their tongues. I feel older than they are. Carol doesn’t knock for me.
    Next morning they get up late. Holding their heads like wounded soldiers, looking out through empty-barrelled eyes. When you don’t say much, you learn to listen better, to read the sounds other people make without words. Mum can make you feel bad without saying a word, without looking at you. I haven’t set the table yet. She tuts and walks away into the kitchen. Dad gets edgy when there’s no money left. He shifts in the chair onto his other hip, crosses one leg over; rattles the newspaper until it nearly rips.
    Dad turns on the telly. It’s the news. A little girl has gone missing somewhere near Liverpool. Dad turns to Mum. ‘I bet I know who murdered that little girl.’
    Mum shushes him. With a toss of her head, I’m sent out of the room. I close the living-room door and listen through the gap.
    â€˜It’ll be that prick,’ Dad says.
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Whatsaname, talks funny, Dolly’s fella with the beard. Somebody in the pub told me he came here from Manchester. I’ve seen him with the kids, all smiles and fucking free sweets.’
    â€˜Oh yes. I forgot about him, dirty bastard. She might not be dead.’
    â€˜She’s dead all right.’
    â€˜What makes you so sure?’
    â€˜Gone all night, no word? Use your brain.’
    â€˜If that’s true, someone should burn that bastard.’
    â€˜Now you’re talking.’
    The kitchen door opens. The heavy sound of a kettle being filled, the crackle of a match against the side of a box. The smell of fresh smoke, Dad’s voice slow and clear.
    â€˜Someone needs to torch that shop, with him in it.’
    Mum catches her breath. ‘What about poor Dolly?’
    Dad sneers. ‘Poor Dolly? She’ll be in on it.’
    Without me even touching the door it creaks. He’s there in a flash, cigarette clamped to the side of his mouth, dragging me into the room by my ear.
    â€˜Look what I found listening at the door. What have you heard?’
    â€˜Nothing, I only wanted a drink.’
    â€˜Little girls with big ears shouldn’t listen at doors. If I find out …’
    Mum interrupts. ‘Leave her. Back to your room now.’ Her voice is panicked. ‘She hasn’t heard anything.’

7
    M r Wainwright is standing at the office door. He tells me he’s a social worker and all he wants is a little chat. He turns; walks with rounded shoulders that make the back of his jacket swing too far up. He sits in Mr Merryville’s chair and I sit opposite him.
    He unzips his black leather bag and takes out a pad,