Tom had an ordinary family. Mum and Dad loved him, and he loved them back. On weekends, they’d go to the cinema or the theatre, ice skating in winter, and in summer, they’d take trips down to Cornwall. They’d collect seashells, and Dad taught Tom how to swim… Then the company he worked for went under. And Dad started drinking. When he was drunk, he’d rant about the government, the prime minister, the laws—everyone was to blame for him losing his job.
When Mum, tired of his drunken rambling, asked him to go lie down, he’d snap at her. Lately, he’d started picking fights with her right away. She’d send Tom to his room, but he could still hear everything—the shouting, the sound of plates smashing. What could he do?
When Dad finally passed out, filling the room with snores and the sour stink of booze, Mum would come in and often fall asleep next to Tom on his narrow bed. He’d notice bruises on her hands, even her face. In the morning, Dad would apologise and swear he’d never lay a finger on her again…
Mum would slip away quietly in the morning. Once he’d slept it off, Dad would leave too, saying he was “looking for work.” Tom stayed home alone, did his homework. He was in Year 4 and had afternoon classes. He’d heat up his lunch, eat, then walk to school.
At night, it all started again.
“Your dad kick off last night?” asked Mrs. Rose, their next-door neighbour.
“Yeah,” Tom nodded shortly.
“Why doesn’t your mum call the police?”
“Gotta go, I’ll be late for school,” Tom hurried off.
“Go on then, off with you,” Mrs. Rose sighed, watching him leave.
When Tom came home from school, Mum was cooking dinner in the kitchen. Dad wasn’t home, which was a relief. He sat at the table and told her little bits of school news. Then he said it was better without Dad, and it’d be nice if he never came back.
Mum gave him a sharp look.
“He’s going through a rough patch, love. Once he finds work, things’ll go back to normal.”
But Dad came home, stomping around the hallway, dropping things and grumbling. Mum tensed up straight away, peeking out from the kitchen.
“Go to your room,” she whispered, nudging him away.
He sat in his room, listening. But tonight was different—quieter. Then Mum let out a short cry, something heavy thudded to the floor. Tom crept out and peeked into the kitchen. Dad stood over Mum, legs wide, staring down at her where she lay sprawled. Tom gasped before he could stop himself. Dad turned, his bloodshot eyes locking onto him.
“Son,” he said.
Tom bolted out of the flat and banged on Mrs. Rose’s door. He was shaking. She didn’t understand his broken explanation but called the police and an ambulance. They arrived at the same time. Dad was taken away, Mum rushed to hospital. Tom spent the night at Mrs. Rose’s.
The next morning, they went to see Mum. She lay alone in a hospital bed, tangled in clear tubes. She didn’t wake, not even when Tom called her name and shook her arm. The doctor took Mrs. Rose into the hall, leaving Tom alone with her.
He kept trying to wake her. Bored and worried, he went looking for Mrs. Rose. A door to the hallway was slightly open. He heard the doctor telling someone, “She’s in a coma, unlikely to wake, but we’ve got to hope…” Terrified, Tom ran out of the hospital.
Mrs. Rose found him on a bench in the hospital garden. He cried all the way home. She lost patience trying to calm him. At home, she asked if he and Mum had any family.
“Gran lives in the countryside,” Tom muttered.
“Far from here?”
“An hour and a half by bus, then three miles on foot.”
“You know the way?”
“‘Course I do,” Tom scowled.
“I’ll take you to your gran’s tomorrow,” Mrs. Rose said.
But in the morning, her friend’s daughter called in a panic—her mum was dying. Mrs. Rose floundered.
“I’ll get you to the station and put you on the bus. Sorry I can’t go with you. You’re a big lad now.”
At the station, she asked the bus driver to keep an eye on Tom. He promised. So Tom rode alone to his gran’s. The hum of the engine and exhaustion pulled him under fast. One minute his eyes were closing—the next, someone shook his shoulder.
“Oi, wake up, we’re here,” said the woman beside him.
Tom stood, heading for the exit.
“Stick with the others, don’t wander off. Can’t walk you there, got to turn back,” the driver said.
Tom nodded and stepped off. The crowd quickly scattered, leaving him alone on the country lane. Fear prickled. But the sun shone, fallen leaves rustled underfoot. He told himself he wasn’t a little kid—he knew the way, just had to stay on the path. For courage, he hummed his favourite song, the one he and Mum used to sing: “Whispering grass, the trees don’t have to tell…”
First, he’d pass one tiny village, then a bigger one with a shop, and after that, Gran’s place. Just past the first village, a sharp whistle cut the air. Tom stopped, turned. Two lads sat on a fallen tree off the path.
“Who’re you then? Who you visiting?” the taller one sneered. “Never seen you round here.”
“Going to my gran’s,” Tom said.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I am. Just visiting.” He wasn’t explaining anything to them.
“Got any fags?” the shorter one piped up.
“Mum says smoking stunts your growth,” Tom said.
They burst out laughing.
“Listen to this one! ‘Mum says…’ What else she tell ya? What you got in there?” The taller lad yanked Tom’s backpack off.
“Give it back!” Tom grabbed for it, but the lad shoved him, rifling through his things. Clothes, a book, a forgotten sandwich—all dumped in the grass.
“When my mum had blokes over, she’d shove me out for hours. Yours dump you at your gran’s to get rid of you?” The lad sneered, both of them cackling.
Tom snapped. His mum was in hospital, and they— He lunged, but they were bigger, stronger. The tall one shoved him hard in the chest, the other tripped him. Tom crashed onto his back, pain shooting through him.
“Your mum give you bus fare, then? Did she?” the older lad growled.
No houses in sight, no help coming. Tom tried getting up, but the lad pinned him again. The other patted his pockets.
“Twenty quid! Loaded, are we?” He waved the money Mrs. Rose had given Tom.
Distracted, Tom scrambled up.
“Give it back!” He grabbed at them, but it was hopeless. A fist sent him flying—his head cracked against the fallen tree…
“Up you get, love.” An old woman bent over him. “Look what those ruffians did. What’s your name? You’re not from round here. Who you visiting?”
Tom stood, wincing. He couldn’t remember why he was here, his name… anything. His t-shirt was torn. No backpack, no jacket.
“Come with me, get cleaned up, then we’ll sort you out,” she said, leading him home.
Helpless, he wanted to cry. Washed and fed, the old woman—Mrs. Wilkins—said she’d fetch the parish council chairman. She locked Tom in, not that he’d run. Where would he go?
She returned with a wiry little man. He scratched his head.
“Keep him tonight, Doris. Officer’ll come tomorrow, sort it out.”
The next day, a young policeman arrived. Tom couldn’t tell them anything. They took his photo—swollen face, black eye—no one recognised him. He was sent to a children’s home.
“Sorry, lad,” the officer said. “No one’s looking for you. You’ll go to a care home. If your family turns up, we’ll let them know.”
Tom didn’t care.
At the home, the kids figured out he remembered nothing. They tormented him. Nights were worst—blanket over his head, punches raining down. He stopped sleeping, attacking first, earning him punishments. The others called him “Psycho.”
Teachers labelled him a troublemaker, though he did well in lessons. Rules, maths—he knew them. But himself? Nothing. They named him Alfie after the song he hummed. Alfie Carter—found near Carter’s Cross. It didn’t feel right, but what choice did he have?
Months passed. Before Christmas, sponsors visited with gifts. The staffOne day, his mum walked into the children’s home, her eyes lighting up the second she saw him, and after a tearful reunion, she took him home where they rebuilt their lives together, safe at last.
