Sid (1979)

"Right. Don't answer the door. Don't answer the phone. We'll be gone a couple of hours."

They're always longer.

"All right Dad."

"I mean it."

I'm only nine years old. I never answer the phone or the door. There's really no need for him to say this.

"Why's he allowed to go?" I ask, nodding towards Nigel, my younger brother. I hate staying in this new flat on my own.

"Because he looks innocent. He'll come in handy."

My Dad has spent the last half an hour scanning the classified ads in the local newspaper. He rolls it up and tucks it under his arm.

"We're off to see a man about a dog and then we'll chase this advert up," he tells me.

I know there's no point arguing: this happens most weekends when Dad has "access" to me and my brother.

The front door slams and I switch the television on. World of Sport. Boring. I hate Saturdays. Dickie Davies and those ladies typing noisily in the background. I like the wrestling though. Perhaps there will be some later? Big Daddy, Giant Haystacks and my favourite: Kendo Nagasaki. I leave ITV on, with the sound turned down, just in case.

I pace the strange, stark rooms, scared to look too closely at their contents. Terrified that there will be a rap at the door or that the phone will ring out, shattering the silence. I know why I'm not allowed to answer them: because it could be the police. That's why Dad and his girlfriend have moved again.

Not that I liked the last place above the laundrette. It was grey and cold and there was a stain on the wall where Dad's girlfriend, Dawn, threw her curry at him. The neighbour's dogs were the best thing about it. Two huge slobbering Rottweilers who could devour a whole packet of Rich Tea biscuits in seconds. It was a keen but fleeting pleasure to watch them eat.

In the kitchen, I survey the empty fridge with dismay. There's never anything to eat here. I apprehensively select a packet of crisps from the cupboard. Perhaps no one will notice they've gone? They are disappointingly soft and stale, but I swallow them anyway, in hungry handfuls.

I creep into the living room, across to the long glass case that sits on the floor next to the television. I settle down flat on my stomach. Inside, nestles the smooth, coiled form of an Indian Python. I tap the glass, but Sid, my Dad's pet snake, never responds. He is beautiful, with his glistening brown blotched skin, but very boring company.

"Murderer!" I spit bitterly at him.

I hate him.

I liked Sid at first, especially when I was allowed to hold him. I would wrap him around my wrist like a living bracelet and enjoy his supple movements. Later though, I discovered what it is he likes to eat: pretty, pink-eyed, white mice. My Dad takes great delight in dangling the poor creatures by their tails and dropping them in front of Sid as an offering. It is always more than I can bear and I run screaming to the bathroom. Locking myself in until it is all over.

I settle myself down on the sofa and watch TV. Eventually, Dad returns with Dawn and Nigel. My brother looks tired, but the adults are twitching with excitement. They exchange a conspiratorial look and burst out laughing.

My Dad holds up a cardboard box, looking very pleased with himself. He offers it out to me and I peek at the small, furry rodent within. For a fraction of a second I dare to hope that the dear, sweet, little hamster might be a gift for me.

"Free to a good home!" my Dad guffaws, slapping my brother on the back.

"You did well, Son, promising to take good care of him. That was a nice touch."

My heart clenches painfully with the realisation that the hamster is destined to be Sid's dinner.

I'll never learn.

I run, sobbing, to the bathroom.