We’re gunna get out of here.

That’s what Mum keeps saying. She’s in the kitchen, wearing a faded yellow dress, hands working quickly, slapping mayo onto cheap white bread. A heavy fringe frames her face. When she looks at me her eyes are different colours and I wonder for a second if she’s made from a rainbow.

‘We’re gunna get out of here,’ Mum says again, smiling with wonky teeth.

‘But I like it here,’ I tell her. She frowns and shakes her head.

We live just out of Adelaide. The air is sweet, filled with the smell of pinecones and orange blossoms. Even though Mum says we’re lucky to live here she always talks about escaping. She says just over the hills there’s something beautiful waiting. She talks about Tasmania and New Zealand, and sometimes even England, as though we could actually leave and go. Mum says the world can be our oyster. She says there’s a lot of stuff waiting out there for us.

When it rains here the streets turn sloppy. People shuffle round, taking their time to do everything. Mum says there isn’t any hurry. I like when it rains and I can feel the wet on my face. I like to open my mouth and collect raindrops on my tongue. Mum says when I do that I look like a dog. I’m not sure I want to look like a dog but Mum says she doesn’t mean it like that. Mum likes to lie around in the heat. She says it makes her feel alive. It gets really hot here and when the flies come out people stay inside. The flies are always black and ugly, and they remind me of big dark crosses, the type my teachers give me on my homework.I often wonder what the people do all day. Mum says I shouldn’t worry so much. She says it only matters what I do. I want to do big things and I want to be better than everyone else, but I also want to stay here and live with Mum and I want her to be happy. Sometimes I think I’d sacrifice anything if it made Mum happy. Sometimes I’m not sure what happiness is.

Mum says I think about things too much but maybe Mum doesn’t think enough. She looks like she’s been asleep for too long and it’s exhausted her. She always laughs and then says she can’t sleep at night. Mum’s laughter doesn’t sound like laughter. It sounds like there’s something trapped inside. Mum wears bright colours because they remind her of the Royal Adelaide Show. She doesn’t smile much. Not that real smile anyway, the one where your mouth stretches open and goes round your neck.

Dad left us a few weeks ago. Mum says she doesn’t care because she has me and Leanne. Leanne’s my baby sister. She’s three years old and she has very fine hair and round eyes. When she cries she’s noisy but she doesn’t cry much anymore. Maybe she has no more tears left. I wonder if each person is given a certain number of tears to cry. Maybe once you’ve reached your quota that’s it.

I don’t cry much.

When Mum and Dad used to fight they would yell a lot. Fucks and shits and bitches. ‘You’re a bitch!’ Dad would scream. He was good at screaming. ‘I didn’t want any of this,’ he’d yell. I’d often wonder if he would ever be quiet. He’d slam doors and Mum would cry all night and her tears would fill the air and sometimes it would be hard to breathe. Dad’s face would go as red as Christmas ham.

I remember one time Mum threw this little china bunny rabbit I loved. I watched as it smashed into the wall. Smashed and scattered on the floor. Mum screamed so loud it made everything stop. And then it was silent. So silent it filled your head with noise. My head ached from all the silence.You know, when Dad left this last time Mum refused to leave her room. I brought her warm cups of tea, and I made her food but she never touched any of it. I muddled my way through the pots and cans. Beans on toast, canned peaches, that kind of thing. I’d sit the food down on her bedside table but she wouldn’t even look at it. When she slept I’d go into her room and dump the untouched trays of food back in the kitchen. I knew she was asleep because I could hear her snoring. She always seemed to be asleep. The house was dark and we kept the curtains drawn. I think I wanted Dad to come and switch the lights back on. I had to take care of Leanne. I still do but Mum’s been better these last few weeks.

Looking after Leanne makes me wonder if when I grow up I’ll be any good as a dad. I’ll probably be a dodgy one. Always forgetting birthdays and anniversaries and never doing the right thing. But maybe I won’t get married and maybe I won’t have kids.

Today Mum just looks at me. Puts the bread down and points to the kettle.

‘Been dying for a cuppa,’ she says.

‘Mum,’ I say, not sure what I want to say. ‘Mum, are you okay?’

We watch the kettle boil, steam rising from its top. Mum sighs and tips milk into her coffee – and the coffee turns pale white, small threads of brown bobbing in it. I stare at the coffee and then look back at Mum. Half the time she acts like she doesn’t even miss Dad. But shouldn’t she care that Dad’s not here anymore? Shouldn’t it make her stay up late at night and cry into her pillow? And when she’s done crying, shouldn’t it make her want to go outside and smash her body into things? To rip the concrete apart – to tear the chalk drawings off the pavement and scream?

I think I like it when Mum cries because at least that way I know she cares. Sometimes Mum says Dad’s a bad person and that we don’t need him but I know that’s not true. And anyway, I’m sure he’ll be back before too long. He’ll march into the house, swinging his arms by his side, whistling. We’ll rush over to him, and he’ll grin, and then we’ll sit down at the table and it will be like nothing has changed except everything will have changed because it will all be better.

‘Fine, darling.’ Mum brings the coffee to her lips and drinks slowly. ‘I was thinking, we need to do something fun. Just the three of us. What you think?’

I don’t say anything and stare at Leanne instead. She’s rocking in her chair, her small fingers tapping the plastic. I’m glad she didn’t hear the way Dad screamed. He had scrunched his face up until he looked like an old pig.

‘One was enough, ya know?’ he had said. ‘I’m tired all the time. I’m sick of this shit, Riss. I didn’t want kids anyway.’

And he stomped away, his arms flailing. He didn’t think I’d heard. He had slammed a fist down on the table, making the teacups rattle, and I watched his shadow dance and skid its way outside. Part of me was glad to see him go. The other half wanted him to stay more than anything. His words were been rough and ugly. I had stayed behind the door and watched silently.

‘Alan?’ Mum says, bringing me back to today and the dirty kitchen. ‘What do you think? Something fun yeah?’ Mum jumps up and sits on the bench, dangling her milky white legs. Her hair is going grey. I wonder if she’ll ask me to dye it for her. What colour?

Red?

Fire engine red.

I imagine Mum in the supermarket, poking her head through rows of cardboard boxes and tinned food, her curly, brightly coloured hair sticking out. Mum always stands out. Or maybe I could dye her hair a crazier colour. Blue.

Like the sky. The ocean.

Or purple.

Like the flowers growing outside, the ones Leanne points and smiles at. Like the bruise on Mum’s face.

I wonder if that bruise will ever go away. I mean it’s more like a scar than a bruise. It’s blotchy and ugly and covers half her face and I’ve seen people down the street staring at her. I guess everyone knows Dad did it. Mum acts oblivious when people ask what’s wrong but then goes and buys big packets of makeup and creams. She sits in front of the mirror for hours, just staring.

‘Alan?’

I look up at her. ‘What? Oh okay, whatever, I guess so.’

‘There’s meant to be a music festival on tomorrow. I read it in the paper. We could all go. A family day out…’

‘But what about Dad? If it’s a family day he should be there.’

Mum turns white. And then pink. She twists hair around a finger and looks strangely at me. I hope she doesn’t cry. Mum goes through phases. Sometimes all she does is cry. Other times she goes all stiff and wooden, like one of those ugly porcelain dolls.

‘Your Dad and I – we’ve decided to take a break for a while. Come on Al baby, it’s for the best. You know that.’

Mum’s forehead is lined, and she coughs and looks away. I search her face hoping she’ll say something else, that she’ll change her mind. That soon we’ll all be sitting round the table. Beer cans sloshing. Cartoon page in the newspaper spread out across our laps. Television blaring.

If Dad came back maybe Mum would smile. And when I slept at night there would be no monsters made out of shadows. I know Dad will be different when he returns. I have one of those feelings, deep down in my gut that tells me Dad’s gunna change. He’s gunna make us happy. Leanne claps her hands and cries, and I wonder if she’s thinking anything. Do little kids even have proper thoughts? I bet Leanne’s thoughts are stupid anyway.

‘He still loves you and Leanne very much, that will never change. You know that, don’t you? You shouldn’t worry so much about him, yeah baby?’ Mum busies herself with the cups and plates, stacking and unstacking, but she doesn’t actually clean anything.

‘I’m hungry,’ Leanne wails.

Mum’s face is yellow, like she’s sick, and she touches her mouth slowly. I wonder if she’s gunna chuck. She hands a sandwich to Leanne silently. I scratch my feet along the plastic tiled floor. I think about going outside. Resting my head on the soft grass. Mum waves her hands erratically.

When Mum’s not being quiet she’s always talking. Bumbling and bustling. She goes out all the time too, always putting lipstick on and pouting her lips. I don’t know where she goes but she doesn’t come home for hours and when I was younger I used to worry a lot that she’d just run away.

At bedtime I would stare into the darkness and imagine funny faces on the walls. I’d clench my cheeks together and squeeze my eyes shut. Then I’d open them slowly and hold my hands tight, and hope the monsters would drift off and go back to where they belonged. They stayed and lurked in the darkness, and sometimes when I left the blinds open, I’d see them hovering in the trees, or dancing along the moon’s surface. I wondered what they wanted from me. If they were waiting for something. I wondered what made a monster a monster. What made something bad? What made something want to do horrible things?

I used to wonder what would happen if Mum packed a small bag and got on the first train out of town? What would I do without her? Eventually social workers would come, bundled with notepads and clinical faces, and I’d be taken away, after weak tea and chocolate squares, and kind words by stupid women – into some orphanage where Mum would fade out of my memory, and by the time I turned sixteen, it would be like she never existed. Or what if one day Mum was caught shoplifting? And the police turned up, with briefcases, and they snapped their fingers in her face, and she cried, and they handcuffed her, and I had to visit Mum in prison. In prison Mum would be red faced and hard, with tattoos on her arms, and a bad haircut. We’d stare at each other and I’d try to tell I loved her because I could never stop loving her but the words wouldn’t come.

Today I shake my head and look at Mum again.

‘Mum, I’m gunna go see Ronny now.’

‘What?’ Mum blinks and throws a tea towel down.

‘Can I come?’ Leanne looks at me imploringly.

Mum takes a strand of hair and rolls it around her finger. ‘But you’ve got chores,’ she says. ‘Where are you and Ronny going anyway?’

I shrug and turn, heading out the front door. Ronny’s my best mate. Always has been and always will be.

It’s raining when I get outside.

Ronny and I stand in the middle of the street and stretch out our arms. The water slams into us and runs down our faces. I take deep breaths, allowing the water to fill me up. Ronny wears a dark hoodie, pulled up over his head.

‘Come on,’ Ronny says. ‘Let’s go to the deli.’

He tugs my sleeve and I open my eyes, and when I stare out into the rain again it looks hazy.

At the deli we buy bottles of Coke and packets of chips. We walk round in the rain, swinging our plastic bags. The rain is big and loud. Ronny says rain can’t be big.

‘There’s a lot of it. But it’s not big, Alan. Don’t be stupid.’

‘It IS big,’ I say. ‘It’s big and I can feel it on top of me.’

Ronny frowns.

‘Come on, whatever, Al, let’s go.’

I follow him slowly. In a funny way the rain reminds me of my anger. Maybe it’s because of the way it falls. Sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly.

When it’s hot the rain is sticky and the stickiness makes me think of honey, and then I think about bees, hovering and winding around brightly coloured flowers, searching for pollen. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a bee trapped inside me, just going round and round, waiting for a reason to burst out. Today the anger brushes against my body.

‘Are you coming over next Saturday?’ I ask sloshing my feet in a puddle of water. ‘Mum’s gunna make a cake.’

‘Sorry. I can’t.’

‘What? Why not?’ But he doesn’t reply. ‘Ronny?’ 

‘Come on Alan.’ He starts to run. ‘Aunt Rits will have tea ready.’

Ronny’s one of the only dark kids in class. Mum says it’s not polite to talk about skin colour but I don’t see why not. There are other dark kids but Ronny’s the darkest.

The first time I met him he grinned, his mouth full of shiny white teeth. He said school was a drag.

I remember staring at his bright eyes. He told me he’d had heaps of friends at his last school and I wondered how many schools he’d been to. We watch movies at Ronny’s place and his Aunt Rita cooks us popcorn on the stove and we smother it with butter and lie on the floor and laugh at the crap on the telly. Mum says Ronny’s a good friend to have. I think she likes him more than she likes me.

By the time I get home later I’m completely soaked and my hair’s wet and stringy. Mum’s standing in front of the oven, rubbing her hands together.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Oh. You get caught in the rain?’

‘Me and Ronny went for a walk.’

She sits down on the floor and crosses her legs. ‘How was school?’

‘It’s Saturday.’

‘Oh.’ She finally looks up at me. ‘Oh, yeah I guess it is love.’ She giggles and wipes her cheek.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

She rubs her hands along the tiled kitchen floor. The oven door is wide open. ‘Well, it’s cold, isn’t it?’ She pats the empty floor next to her. ‘Sit with me?’

‘Ronny’s not coming for my birthday,’ I say.

‘Okay.’

She doesn’t say anything else, just sits there, staring at the oven door. I turn around and head to my room.

Leanne’s on my bed, pulling at my doona, pushing her hands underneath the cover.

‘Mum,’ I yell. ‘What’s Leanne doing here?’

‘Hi Alan.’ Leanne looks at me with her big, round eyes. ‘You’re all wet.’

‘Yeah. Well, it’s raining.’

When I look at Leanne I feel anger pressing up against my heart. I wonder how many bees are inside of me. Maybe they’re making a hive for themselves and settling in. I wonder if one day my chest will explode and when paramedics come they’ll find bees everywhere.They won’t know what to do and so they’ll just look at me, and when Mum comes into the room, her eyes will sag down her face.

‘Raining,’ Leanne repeats.

‘Yeah, rain.’

‘I like rain,’ Leanne says.

I scoop her up into my arms, grab my doona and wrap it around us.

‘Rain rain go away,’ she giggles.

I press my finger to her lips and she drops into silence. We sit and listen to the rain outside, at the way it beats into the house. Into the darkness around us.