Page 1 of Second Chances

Prologue

Ryan

“You good-for-nothing, lazy, disgusting brat. Why I keep you around, I don’t know? It’s not as though the money they give me for you is worth it even.” My foster mother, Chantelle, screeches as she whacks me hard across the ear. I’m sure I can feel my brain rattling around in my head. My arm is still in a cast from where my foster father, Dwayne, broke it a few weeks back. I curse my birth parents for leaving me here—it’s become a daily ritual I perform in my head.

I’d been trying to help Chantelle out by cleaning the house because I thought it would make her happy. It wasn’t my fault that I knocked into the table and sent the plates crashing to the floor, breaking them.

“I’ll be asking for more money to replace all of my stuff you’ve broken. Do you even know how much plates cost?” Chantelle asks.

The ones I’m given to eat off are probably no more than a pound each from one of the cheap shops on the high street, but I know better than to argue with my foster mother when she’s in this sort of mood.

“I don’t. I’m sorry.” I hold my uninjured arm across my face to ward off another attack.

“You’re a good-for-nothing freak. No wonder they gave you to me. Wish I’d said no. Get the fuck out of my sight. You can go without dinner tonight. I’ve got better things to do than cook for you.”

I scamper out of the room as quickly as my lanky legs can take me. Dwayne is on the sofa in the lounge with the TV playing, but he isn’t watching it. The needle sticking out of his arm tells me that the lights are on, but nobody’s home in my foster father’s head. The man is lost to his latest heroin fix. That’s the true reason why they keep me—it means they can afford to stick rubbish into their veins.

I open the front door and step outside onto the walkway of the run-down east London council house we live in. There is a chill in the air. Winter is on the way, but there’s no point in asking for a coat—the only thing I’d be given is a beating. I’m not enrolled in school or any clubs, and I don’t have regular meals, because the people who are supposed to be looking after me aren’t prepared to spend any money on me.

My stomach rumbles, and I’m reminded I’ve not eaten since I had a slice of stale toast that morning. I’m tall for my ten years, but there isn’t an ounce of fat on me. When Dwayne and Chantelle had reluctantly taken me to hospital for my broken arm, the doctors had told them I needed to have more milk, cheese, and spinach because my bones aren’t strong enough for someone my age. I had to ask them what spinach was because I’d never heard of it before. I was shocked there were such things as fresh vegetables. I couldn’t recall a time I’d ever had any. Most of my meals consist of takeaways or baked beans on toast.

My belly groans again, and I put my good hand over it to relieve the pain that spasms through it. If Chantelle isn’t going to feed me, then I’ll have to find my own dinner. I know just the place. My long and lanky legs set off at a running pace, and I reach the back of the pizza shop in no time at all. The delicious smells make the knot of agony in my stomach twist even more. But when I open the lid to the first bin, a rancid smell meets my nostrils.

“Nope, too old.” I replace the lid and dry heave a few times to rid myself of the nausea induced by the rotting food.

I open the next one.

“Bingo.” The remnants of lunchtime food rest at the top of the bin. I grab a few pieces and am lucky enough to find some full slices containing my favorite topping, pepperoni. Today is a good day.

I bring the first slice to my lips.

“Don’t eat that.” A deep voice comes from behind me.

Spinning around, I see an old man watching me. His hair is white at the edges, and he’s dressed well. On either side of him are two stocky men. They look scary.

“Who are you?” I ask but back away from them at the same time.

“I’m a concerned party,” the man offers and steps closer.

“A what?”

“A friend.”

“You aren’t my friend. I don’t know who you are. If Chantelle and Dwayne owe you money for that stuff they inject into themselves, then you need to go threaten them. I don’t have any cash, or I’d be in the shop buying the pizza not getting it out of the waste.”

I learned at the age of five there were people who would try and use me to get money from my foster parents. I was taken one day and kept locked in a house with a woman who seemed to have lots of men visiting her. I was there for a week before Chantelle and Dwayne showed up with a fistful of cash, and I was allowed to go home. I kind of liked it at the other house, though. They gave me food and let me watch what I wanted to on the TV. They all laughed at me when I asked if I could stay there. The second time it happened the experience wasn’t so pleasurable. I was beaten with a stick, and it left a big scar on my back.

“Would you like a pizza from inside the shop?” the man asks.

“What?”

“Would you like a pizza from inside the shop? A hot one.” The old man tapped one of the men standing beside him. “Get Ryan a pizza of his choice. We’ll be in the car.”

“Pepperoni!” I shout at the man as he heads to the front of the shop. It occurs to me I should be worried the stranger knew my name, but I’m so damn hungry I’m beyond caring.

“Shall we?” The man motions for me to follow.

I don’t move.

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