Crossing the Line by Gillian Philip Page A

was staring at me, his eyes beneath their fair fringe brilliant with shocked approval, which made me want to hit him.
    This was not long before he became imaginary.

10
    â€˜They’re trying to kill me,’ whispered Lola Nan. ‘They’ve paid a hitman and I never know which moment could be my last.’
    Mum was fighting a jar of organic fairtrade marmalade, trying to get the lid off. Dad sat at the table watching her, jaw in his fists, faded tattoos wrinkled and crumpled, wispy hair coming out of its elastic band. He gave Lola Nan a filthy look.
    â€˜Why would we go to the expense when we could shove you under a bus?’
    â€˜Terence!’ said Mum.
    I’d sooner push you under one, I thought, than ever do it to Lola Nan. But Dad caught my eye and tried to give me a knowing smile, like it was a shared joke. Pathetic.
    Poor Dad. We’d lost contact in his smitten love affair with Allie. Now he knew she was going to grow up too,whether he liked it or not, and maybe he’d like to be in touch with me again, but he didn’t know where to start. Neither did I, so we were on a bit of a hiding to nothing.
    Sometimes I got the notion he was thinking about not having the first drink of the evening, so that he wouldn’t be dazed, and he’d remember to sit down with me and talk, clear-headed meaningful bonding stuff. Then he’d think about not having the second drink instead, but he’d have it anyway, and a third. After that he’d be dazed and the bonding thing wouldn’t seem so important any more.
    â€˜Nick,’ said Mum.
    I dreaded that bright and brittle tone. Hesitant, afraid to begin. ‘What?’ I said.
    â€˜Did you hear Kevin Naughton’s mother died?’
    I had to take a quick breath. ‘No,’ I said calmly. ‘When?’
    â€˜Last week? Sometime last week.’ She banged the marmalade jar hard a few times on the table. I don’t know what that was supposed to achieve. ‘It was in the weekend paper.’
    â€˜Oh,’ I said. ‘You didn’t show me.’
    â€˜I wasn’t sure … I didn’t know if you’d …’
    Didn’t think I’d care, eh? ‘Was it the cancer?’ I asked.
    Mum nodded, straining at the jar lid. I wished Dad would get his finger out and give her a hand. I wished Mum would snap at him, tell him to stop being such an idle troll. ‘She had a recurrence,’ she said. ‘It came back with a vengeance. Jenna Mathieson from the oncology ward told me. So sad.’
    So sad.
    Came back with a vengeance.
    Shame, it really was. Poor woman. Her parenting skills might have been dodgy, or they might not, but
she
never killed anyone. A shiver rippled down my spine. ‘Maybe it was Kev’s trial,’ I said. ‘Stress.’
    â€˜Don’t talk crap,’ snapped Dad. ‘The woman had cancer. That can be fatal, you know.’
    Sarcastic
arse.
    Mum gave him that look she always did: surprised, and slightly sympathetic. I don’t know why she should be surprised. It wasn’t exactly out-of-character behaviour. Must have been a rough night. Again.
    Sure enough, ‘I need a drink,’ he muttered under his breath.
    I knew he wouldn’t have one. Drinking after breakfast would make him an alcoholic. He said it for my benefit, just to let me know how much I upset him. So damn disappointed in me, he was driven to drink. Poor little arse.
    Lola Nan threw me one of her rare incisive glances, though it landed just over my left shoulder. ‘Me too.’ She flashed a wicked grin. ‘Any whisky?’
    Most of the time I knew Lola Nan was gone. But there were times I suspected a lucid old gremlin hid behind her papery eyelids.
    â€˜Later, Lola Nan.’ I patted the fragile hand that in turn was patting its little cushion of air. ‘I have to go to
school
now.’
    Focusing, she snatched her hand away. ‘Wasn’t talking to