The Decision
Recently, Years 7 & 8 wrote for the National Short Story Young Writer competition. The winners will be announced in April. The remit was to write a short story entitled ‘The Decision’.
He asks me again. “Was your father at home on the night of 23rd of April, yes or no?” I stare down at my worn shoes and think back to that night. The vision of his empty bed, the covers undisturbed, pictures of mum strewn all over the stained brown carpet. I think about Emily, already forced to grow up without a mum. We couldn't lose Dad as well. I look up in to Sergeant Bailey`s questioning eyes. “Yes, he was here all night” I say and the calmness of my voice both shocks and disturbs me.
“You look just like Father Christmas, Emily!” She chuckled, wiping the foam from her dimpled chin. I loved seeing her chubby face light up with happiness. She was too young to remember mum. As for me, I’ll never forget the day she died and our world crumbled. “Right, let’s get you out of the bath before you turn into a wrinkly old prune!” I lifted her soft, pink body out of the water, wrapped her in her hooded seahorse towel and carried her into our tiny, damp bedroom. From the living room I could hear the familiar sound of the bottle lid being unscrewed followed by the glug glug of whisky being poured into the glass.
Dad had never been the same since mum died. It was on a cold day in February that we left the Hospice without her. Dad initially seemed to cope surprisingly well. I was proud of him, standing in his smart suit at the graveside. But soon after the drinking began, the odd whisky rapidly becoming a daily habit. He lost his job at the factory and for months seemed to spend his days in front of the telly or asleep on the sofa, the smell of whisky permanently on his breath. Later he started going out to The Lamb in the evenings, leaving us at home alone.
“Goodnight guys, I’ll just be at the pub, sleep tight.”
It was dad; I could already hear that he was slurring his words. He poked his head around the door - his once smiling face now always looked so sad, the skin lined by grief and anger. He had given up shaving lately and an untidy beard hid his dry, cracked lips. Sometimes I think the only thing that stops me from sinking into that same despair is having my little sister Emily. She’s everything to me now, and pretty much the only good thing left in my life.
I don’t quite know what woke me; maybe it was the screech of an ambulance outside our block of flats or needing the loo. The illuminated hands of my clock showed 3:48 am. I suddenly sat up and looked over at Emily. She was fine, gently snoring, chest lifting up and down rhythmically and peacefully. I wandered out into the small corridor aware of a strange eeriness, as if something wasn’t quite right. The beige paint was peeling in some places, the carpet stained and lifting up. Brown patches of damp spread across the ceilings and walls. I knew we didn’t have much, but at least we still had a roof over our heads - for now anyway. I entered the bathroom and heard the familiar drip drip of the tap that dad was always promising to fix. I was washing my hands when it dawned on me... it was almost completely silent in the house except for the occasional raised snore of Emily at the end of the passageway. Usually I could always hear dad’s grunts as he slept heavily after an evening at The Lamb, but all was silent. I peeked into dad’s room; the bed was neatly made just as I had left it the previous morning. The white wedding album lay open on the floor – some pages had been torn out and strewn over the duvet. My heart was pounding and a shiver crept up my spine................. Where was he?
I was making Emily’s breakfast the following morning when dad stumbled into the room. A rush of relief washed over me. He was home. Even though he wasn’t the best father in the world I still loved him. He slumped down into the faded green armchair and it was then that I noticed a purpley-blue ring around his left eye.
I gave Emily her toast, switched on the portable telly and sat down opposite her with my bowl of cornflakes. In the background I could hear the broadcaster’s voice. ” .....police appealing for witnesses...... in the early hours of the 24th of April......35 year old man died later in hospital......following a brawl outside The Lamb pub.” My ears pricked up at the mention of dad’s favourite drinking spot. I swung round just in time to catch a glimpse of the CCTV image of a dark bearded figure before dad lurched forward and smashed his fist into the power button. The television toppled off the work surface and smashed on to the floor. Emily started to cry, huge hot tears rolling down her crumpled face. “What did you do that for?” I yelled but he didn`t reply. Dad stormed out of the room and I heard the slam of his bedroom door. I picked Emily up and cuddled her. “Don`t cry” I whispered, “Everything is going to be OK. Do you want me to make you some warm milk?” She nodded and snuggled into my neck.
The abrupt sound of someone knocking at the door caused me to almost drop the milk bottle. Dad suddenly reappeared looking anxious, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. He grabbed me by the shoulders – “Daniel, you have to help me” he stuttered, his eyes pleading. “Something happened last night – something bad, but it wasn't my fault. Remember I was here all night with you and Emily”. Before I could answer there was another loud knock followed by a booming voice – “Police, open up!
