Chapter One - The Trunk
-8 Stevie was slumped on the living room sofa when his mum and dad returned home from the shops. Their angry shouting drowned out the old gangster movie on TV.
“It’s junk,” Stevie’s mum snapped.
“No it’s not,” his dad retorted, “it’s an antique. And a bargain. The guy wanted 50 quid for it, but I knocked him down to 30.”
There was a moment’s silence. Stevie slid down the sofa.
“You wasted 30 pounds on an old suitcase!?”
“It’s not a suitcase, it’s a trunk. It's an antique travel trunk.”
Another moment’s silence. Stevie slid further down the sofa.
“I don’t care what you call it, just get it out to your shed before it marks the floor. Or better still, stick it where it belongs, on the verge with all your other useless junk!”
Stevie’s dad swore and stomped off through the house and out the back door, slamming it behind him. The TV suddenly sounded very loud and Stevie hoped his mum wouldn’t notice it or him. However, her x-ray eyes cut through the back of the sofa.
“What’s this rubbish you’re watching? Don’t you have any homework?” she demanded.
“Well, get outside and play or something. All this sitting around in front of the TV isn’t good for you.” Stevie dropped his chin and turned off the TV, just as the gangsters were about to have a shootout. “And stay away from your dad,” his mum called after him as he trudged out the back door, “he’s in a foul mood.”