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  ‘But Dad will still be mad, won’t he?’

  ‘Let me handle him,’ she says. ‘I don’t want you to have to worry about it.’

  I wonder if I should point out to her that I will worry about it because her and Dad are getting divorced and whenever they speak to each other, it ends up in an argument and there was a bad enough one about me not going to breakfast club, let alone her pulling me out of the SATs altogether. I don’t say anything, though. I nod and go upstairs to my room and watch YouTube videos about bee-keepers.

  I want to keep bees one day when I am older. I would like to keep them now but when I asked Mum if we could get a hive about a year ago, she said it was a big commitment and she wasn’t sure it was the right time. I think she must have known they were going to get divorced even then, because when I said that if we had bees, we could use our own honey for the muffins, she got upset and I didn’t mention getting bees to her again. I suppose she was right because I’d hate to have to leave the bees behind and I couldn’t hide them in my pockets and take them with me, like I can with the bulbs from the garden.

  *

  They have the big argument as soon as Dad gets home. Maybe Mum thought it was best to get it over with or maybe Dad asked her about the meeting, and she didn’t want to lie to him.

  As soon as I hear it start, I go and sit on the stairs. Usually, when they argue about things that aren’t important, I play my ukulele or put my headphones on and listen to music turned up loud to try to drown it out. But this is an argument about me doing the tests and I want to know what Dad says and if I ask Mum afterwards, she will try to make it sound better than it really was, and I want to know the truth.

  The first thing I hear is Dad’s angry voice. If you gave voices numbers, like they do with the Richter Scale for earthquakes, I would say it’s a nine on the anger scale (which for earthquakes would mean it only happens every 300 years), and although there are quite a lot of fours and fives in our house, and a fair few sixes and sevens, I don’t think I have ever heard a nine before.

  ‘You cannot make major decisions about our son’s education without consulting me,’ is what Dad shouts.

  Mum’s voice isn’t as loud and I can’t hear it so clearly, but I hear the ‘it’s making him anxious, Martin, I told you what happened in the café. If we’re not careful, this is going to push him over the edge,’ and then they have a sort of mini-argument within the argument about whether I should be wrapped in cotton wool or not (really, I think they should say bubble-wrap, because everything comes wrapped in bubble-wrap these days, I have never seen anything arrive wrapped in cotton wool) and Mum says he was the one who didn’t want me to go to the high school in Halifax and he says that was different and it goes a bit quieter.

  Just when I think the worst is over, Mum says something about me being used for league table results and Dad goes back to a full-on nine and shouts, ‘You are jeopardising our son’s future for your political beliefs and I will not have it,’ at which point Mum’s voice goes up to at least a seven, and Mum never normally goes above a five, and shouts, ‘It will have no impact on his future whatsoever and you know that, you’re trying to emotionally blackmail me.’

  I sit a little bit longer on the stairs while they have another mini-argument about who is emotionally blackmailing who and then Dad says he won’t let her get away with it and I hear the back door slam and when I run back to my bedroom and look out of the window, Dad is standing in the garden with his head down kicking the apple tree, which seems a bit mean because the apple tree has nothing to do with SATs whatsoever.

  I pick up my ukulele and try to play but it doesn’t sound right so I stop and lay on my bed and read for a while, trying not to think about my rumbly tummy, and by the time Mum calls up that tea is ready, I have a tummy ache and don’t really feel like eating any more.

  I go downstairs and hover in the hallway. Dad is already sitting at the dining room table. Mum is getting the macaroni cheese out of the oven. We haven’t had macaroni cheese for ages. Mum always says it is a comfort food so maybe she has made it as a kind of medicine.

  Dad looks up and manages a smile as I sit down next to him.

  ‘Your sunflowers are doing well, aren’t they?’

  I nod. I know he is trying to be nice, but I can’t help thinking about having to leave them behind when they sell the house.

  Mum comes in and puts a plate of macaroni cheese down in front of me. She has put broccoli on the plate too. This is fine because I like broccoli, but I know Dad doesn’t. He still says thank you when she puts his plate down, even though there is broccoli on it too. We sit there and eat, and no one says anything much, but the macaroni cheese is very nice and I can’t help thinking we should have comfort food more often. Even if Dad has left his broccoli.

  BEFORE 6

  6

  Kaz

  ‘Matthew says not to trust them,’ Terry tells me as I put my shoes on.

  ‘You don’t have to trust them. You just need to get what you’re entitled to.’

  ‘They’ll take all my details and send them to MI5. Then they’ll start watching me again.’

  I’ve heard all this before. It’s like the first sneeze when you know a cold is on its way. The difference being, a cold is over in a few days and having a runny nose isn’t much of a problem. Not compared to what he’s going to have to deal with.

  I know there’s nothing I can do about it. All I can do is be here with him and watch him struggle until it gets so bad, they’ll have to do something.

  ‘I’m going to be with you, Terry. You don’t have to worry about owt. Now, have you got your earphones?’

  He nods, puts them in and threads the wires down under his cagoule like I’ve told him to.

  ‘Right,’ I say, hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel. ‘Let’s go.’

  When we arrive at the bus stop there are three other people there; two lads who look like they’re not long out of school and a pensioner with a shopping trolley. Terry is shifting from foot to foot. He is already muttering under his breath and he hasn’t even got on the bus yet.

  When it arrives, I pay while Terry makes for a seat near the back, opposite the teenage lads.

  ‘I can see them, Matthew. I know which ones are spies,’ he says.

  I look out of the window, trying to keep up the pretence that Terry is talking to someone on his phone. That was the whole idea of getting the earphones for him. To make him look normal. Get him to blend in. Number of times I’ve turned round thinking someone was speaking to me, only to realise they were talking into a speaker on their earphones.

  ‘Snake eyes and baseball cap, that’s what I’m calling them.’

  I see him glance sideways as he says it. The lad in the baseball cap looks across.

  ‘You got a problem?’ he asks. Terry ignores him and carries on talking.

  ‘Yeah, they’re following me. They were watching my house last night with binoculars. I saw them.’

  ‘What’s his problem?’ the lad in the baseball cap asks me.

  I shrug and gesture that he’s on the phone. Terry continues talking.

  ‘I were listening to Pet Shop Boys singing “It’s a Sin”, that’s how I knew. Neil Tennant sends me signs sometimes.’

  I am willing the bus to go faster. I don’t know how this is going to end and I don’t like it.

  ‘What’s wrong with him? Fucking fruit-loop,’ the lad with the baseball cap says. I want to shout at him; tell him to piss off and mind his own business. But I know from experience that if I do, it will only make things worse. And my mouth has already got me into enough trouble. So, I ignore him. Although I hate myself for doing it.

  ‘I think they’re going to try to tail me,’ Terry continues. ‘No, it’s OK, Matthew, I can deal with it. I don’t need you to do that. I can handle this.’

  There is a pause whil
e he is listening to Matthew. It does sound like one end of a phone conversation. Which is good, because it means sometimes, he can go unnoticed. But not always.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anyone there,’ baseball cap lad says to his mate. ‘He’s fucking talking to himself.’ They both start laughing loudly and pointing. Other people are looking now. Terry starts singing ‘It’s a Sin’. He is doing it to try to cover up the laughter, I know that, but he is making things worse. I reach up and ring the bell. We are still two stops before the job centre, but I don’t care. I want to get off before this gets out of hand.

  I stand up. Terry looks across at me with a frown. I gesture to him to get up. He does so and starts to follow me towards the doors, still singing. As we get off, he looks up at the lads, who are sticking their middle fingers up at him from the bus.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ve given them the slip,’ he says to Matthew. ‘Yeah, I know there’ll be others. I’m looking out for them, don’t worry.’

  I’m used to it now. I’ve been hearing him say stuff like this since he was a teenager. But it doesn’t get any easier. I always wish I could comfort him in some way. When he was little and Dad was hitting Mam or throwing stuff, I’d get him out of the way and sit holding his hand or cuddling him until it was over. But you can’t hold the hand of a fifty-one-year-old man in public. Not without pretending he’s your husband, and I don’t want to go there.

  There’s nothing I can do for him; enough doctors have explained that to me over the years. But I still hate feeling so helpless. Feeling like I’ve failed him. ‘Good-for-nothing waste of space,’ I hear Mam’s voice calling again. ‘What kind of big sister are you?’

  I try to shut her voice out. We’re a right pair, we are. Him talking to Matthew Kelly and me with me mam’s voice permanently goading me.

  Terry is still talking to Matthew. They’re not going to get any sense out of him at the job centre, I know that. It’s a shame he wasn’t like this when he went for the work capability assessment, they might have come to a different decision. But I’d kept the appointment from him until the last minute, so he didn’t get in a state. Because who in their right mind would try to make their brother have a psychotic episode just so he would be believed? I’d stupidly thought they’d listen to him and read about what had happened before and understand that just because he didn’t seem crazy at the time, it didn’t mean he couldn’t get that way again very quickly. That’s how bloody naïve I was.

  We reach the door of the job centre. It’s a new place, I’ve never been here before. I take Terry to one side and remove the earphones.

  ‘We’ve got to go in now,’ I say. ‘Try not to worry. I’ll get it all sorted for you. Let me deal with everything and just answer truthfully when they ask you questions.’

  ‘I don’t trust them, Kaz. They’ll pass it all on to MI5, I know what they’re up to.’

  ‘Just trust me,’ I say. ‘That’s all you have to do.’

  We go inside. It’s all modern and done up in purple and grey. It doesn’t look a bit like job centres as I remember them. I go up to a man with a clipboard and give him Terry’s name and he tells us to take a seat and wait.

  ‘It’s like being in a bloody doctor’s waiting room,’ I say to Terry as I sit down.

  ‘Matthew says you shouldn’t have given them my name.’

  ‘I had to let them know you were here. You might not have been called otherwise.’

  Terry goes quiet for a bit. I can feel his leg trembling against mine. I hate them for doing this to him. I look at the other people waiting. They all have the same look on their face. Like they’re about to be processed in a sausage-making factory. None of us matter. That’s what it feels like. They can do what they want to us, and we can do fuck-all about it.

  Terry starts talking to Matthew again. I reach over and put the earphones back in for him. When his name is called, he is busy telling Matthew about something he saw in a James Bond film.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, standing up. ‘It’s your turn.’

  The man with the clipboard points us to a desk, where a middle-aged woman with the name ‘Denise Donaldson’ pinned to her chest is sitting.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she says, gesturing for us to sit down.

  ‘I’ve been told me brother Terry here needs a form for this mandatory reconsideration thing of his work capability assessment because he’s been found fit for work and told he’s got to sign on for Universal Credit in meantime, though he can’t work because he’s got schizophrenia, see.’

  ‘Right,’ says Denise, turning to look at Terry. ‘Let’s take one thing at a time. We’ll do your claim for Universal Credit first. Have you got your form?’

  ‘No. We haven’t got internet, love,’ I say. ‘The woman I spoke to on phone said you’d be able to give us one.’

  She nods and does something on her computer.

  ‘Her name’s Denise Donaldson. Is she on your list Matthew?’

  Denise looks up as Terry speaks. ‘Sorry, were you talking to me?’

  ‘No, he’s talking to Matthew Kelly from Stars in Their Eyes,’ I reply.

  ‘Mrs Allen, as you can see, there are a lot of people waiting to be seen and I don’t appreciate time-wasters.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. He hears Matthew Kelly’s voice. If you’re in luck, you might get a bit of Cilla Black and Jim Bowen thrown in for good measure. And it’s Miss Allen, but you’re welcome to call me Kaz, like everyone else does. I haven’t got a husband and I don’t suppose I ever will but, as you can see, it’s pretty crowded in our flat already, what with Matthew and that.’

  Denise looks like she wishes she had been dealing with any case other than Terry’s. She walks over to the printer and comes back with a form, sitting down heavily on her chair.

  ‘Right, let’s get this filled in. Can he read and write?’

  ‘He’s not stupid,’ I say. ‘He’s got schizophrenia. And he is still here.’

  I slide the form across to Terry.

  ‘Fill this in, love,’ I say.

  ‘Matthew says they’re collecting information about me.’

  ‘Would you like to see our data protection agreement?’ asks Denise.

  ‘No, you’re all right, pet,’ I reply.

  ‘Terry, it’s just so you can get your money,’ I say.

  Terry picks up the pen and starts filling in the form.

  ‘Has Mr Allen brought his ID with him?’ Denise asks.

  ‘Yep,’ I say, reaching into my bag and pulling out a bundle of papers. ‘I’ve got his birth certificate here and gas and leccy bills.’

  Terry looks up from the form and grabs my hand as I pass them to Denise.

  ‘You’re giving them what they want. They’ll send them to MI5.’

  ‘No, Terry, she’s going to give them back when she’s looked at them.’

  ‘I need his passport or driving licence,’ Denise says.

  ‘He hasn’t got owt like that.’

  ‘They’re the primary forms of identity we use.’

  ‘Sorry, love but he’s never been out of Yorkshire. He’s not even got a bus pass.’

  Denise frowns and looks through the rest of the papers.

  ‘Marriage certificate?’ she asks.

  I raise my eyebrows at her.

  Terry looks at her and says, ‘I know you have rats here. Matthew told me. He said they were sent by government.’

  Denise looks at Terry and back down to the papers.

  ‘Er, right. I’ll show these to my supervisor,’ she says before going off with the papers.

  ‘This is how they do it,’ says Terry. ‘She’ll be passing information on now. She’s one of them.’

  ‘How are you getting on with form?’ I ask him. Terry lets me look. ‘Put my mobile down for contact number,’ I tell him.

  Terry couldn’t
have his own phone even if we could afford it. He’d get himself in too much trouble trying to call Matthew and ringing MI5 all the time to report stuff. That’s why I never let my phone out of my sight.

  Denise returns and hands the papers back.

  ‘We’ll be able to accept those on this occasion,’ she says. Terry hands her his form, which she starts to read.

  ‘Do you not have an email address?’ she asks him.

  ‘No because MI5 would hack it if I did,’ he replies. Denise sighs. ‘You’ll need to set up a free one for online job applications.’

  ‘What’s the point when he can’t work?’ I ask. ‘He’s only filling this in so he can get his benefits.’

  Denise pulls herself upright.

  ‘You need to understand that this is a claimant contract and Mr Allen’s part of the agreement is that he actively looks for work in return for his benefits.’

  ‘But he’s not fit for work,’ I reply. ‘You know that, I know that, he knows that. So why do we have to go through this whole stupid process? Why can’t you just admit they’ve messed up and sort it out? If you force him to work, it’s only going to get worse. He’ll end up in psychiatric unit again. Do you really want that to happen?’

  She looks down and for a moment, I think I have got through to her. Maybe I have but she can’t admit it because it’s more than her job’s worth. So, she does what they all do, trots out the rules and regulations line.

  ‘The DWP have found him fit for work and therefore we must treat him as such while he goes through the mandatory reconsideration process.’

  I shake my head. The only thing in our favour is that I can’t imagine anyone giving him a job when he’s in this state.

  ‘Fine’ I say. ‘He’ll look for work. When is he going to get his money?’

  ‘It takes five weeks for Universal Credit applications to be processed and the first payment made.’

  I stare at her.

  ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? What’s he supposed to live off during that time?’