His motor bike roars up as I stoke the weekend's pruning. My special place in the clay gutter - baked hard by the Summer and my fire. He crushes the weeds with his big leather buttocks.

'Why won't you come on the camp? We're going to make catapults.'

I don't want to go.

'It'll be great; you'll be sorry you missed it.'

I'm not saying it won't be great. I just don't want to go.

I flee to my room.

He follows, stopping in the kitchen. Dad offers him a beer. 'We make it ourselves. It's much cheaper.'

I lie on my bed, barely able to hear past my heartbeat.

'So how's he getting on?'

'...'

'Yes, he told us he didn't want to go.'

'...'

'We agree entirely; he has to learn to...'

Colin's heavy tread down the hall. He enters triumphant; I haven't said a word. And Dad worships him for fixing the phone.

Authorised persuasion begins. Prowess befuddles fear. It's so draining to maintain distrust. He becomes playful, making light of our history. I so want to believe him. We talk of other things and I relax a little.

He tickles me. Tentatively I join in. He pins me down immediately.

'Shall we kill him?'

What do you mean?

'Shall we kill him?'

NO!

'I think we should kill him.'

It's a game, isn't it? A... game?

He grabs my genitals a second time, copyrighting my nightmares.

**********

I wage a desperate campaign against my parents.

'But why do you hate it so much?'

The truth is taboo.

Astonished, I eventually get out.

To be continued...