As the first light cracked through the gap in the curtains, Sophie slipped out from the bed. Would it still be there? She tugged at the drawer beneath her brother’s old bed and as it fell forward she could see the dark shapes still cradled inside. She pulled excitedly until the whole drawer slid onto the floor, and ran her fingers across the sharp corners of her brother’s Lego. At last, she thought.
She carefully chose three base plates and connected them together with long red runners. In the semi-light the colours were emerging as muted shades. Quietly, she picked out the sturdy building blocks to construct the walls. She knew how to arrange them in real brick style. She had watched and learned many times before. ‘You’re not allowed,’ came her brother’s voice from the doorway, striking an instant chill of fear. She turned to look at him, small eyes stared with malice from his puffy face. She knew they called him ‘Porky’ at school. He moved towards her to remove the Lego from her hands. She could do nothing to resist him. With her slight frame and the advantage of age, her brother had always been able to force his will upon her. He used to sit on her face and threaten to fart if she disobeyed him. She would squirm and wriggle helplessly and try to close her nose and mouth against the stench to follow. She soon learnt to just give in.
‘I was only looking,’ she lied. She dropped the Lego in her hands and slid back across the floor.
‘I will have to tell father.’
‘But you left it here, I didn’t know it was wrong.’
‘You’re a girl Sophie, girls can’t play with Lego, or trains, or see the pig killed.’
‘I wasn’t playing, honestly, I was only looking, not playing.’ ‘Please don’t tell.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘I’ll give you anything, name it, what do you want?’
He walked across the room and opened her cupboard. He flicked through all the clothes hanging up but couldn’t seem to find what he was looking for. Then he started to rummage with increasing frustration through the clothes in her top drawer.
‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.
‘I know you go to ballet Sophie, so where is it?’
Yes, she went to ballet, every week since she turned six. She wore a pink tutu, a soft wrap around top and pink satin shoes. She hated it.
‘Where is what?’ She frowned in confusion.
‘Your ballet stuff.’ ‘Where do you keep it?’ ‘That’s what I want’.
She found her rucksack and handed it to him and as she did so she saw his face soften. In the half light she watched him pull the ballet shoes from the top of the bag and slowly caress the soft fabric. He ran his thumb first one way, against the grain of the silk, then back again smoothing it down with his fingertips. He repeated this several times without taking his eyes off the shoes. Then he took the long silken ribbon between his thumb and forefinger and gently skimmed them along the smooth surface. Reaching the end, he tipped his head to one side and like a cat washing whiskers brushed his pudgy cheek against the silk, before bringing it to rest across his top lip. Sophie was stunned to see her brother in this semi-trance and practically held her breath for fear of rousing him. Abruptly, he opened both eyes but looked straight through her as he stooped to pull the soft cashmere top from the bag. A ragged nail caught at a delicate thread, puckering the surface. He reached for the buttons of his pyjama top and as it fell to the floor he folded his arms through the open holes, wrapping the pink fluffy top around his body, hugging it to him and rocking from side to side. Finally, he tugged out the tutu. He forced it over his pyjama trousers and Sophie could see the elastic stretch to near breaking point as he wriggled his hips this way and that until it sat on his waist, sprayed out like a beach umbrella. He walked on tiptoe to the mirror and turning to look over his shoulder he saw his father, standing in the doorway.