Jake
Tommy 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 head down to Cornwall. They collected seashells, and Dad taught Tommy to swim… Then the company he worked for went bust. And Dad started drinking. And when he drank, he’d rant about the government, the Prime Minister, the laws. Everyone was to blame for him losing his job.
When Mum, exhausted by his drunken rambling, asked Dad to go to bed, he’d turn on her. Lately, he’d start picking fights straight away. She’d send Tommy to his room, but he could still hear everything—the shouting, the smash of plates. What could he do?
When Dad finally passed out, filling the room with snores and the sour stench of beer, Mum would creep into Tommy’s room, often falling asleep beside him in his narrow bed. He noticed the bruises on her arms, even her face. In the morning, Dad would apologise and swear he’d never lay a hand on her again…
Mum would slip out quietly in the morning. Once he’d slept it off, Dad would leave too, “job hunting,” as he called it. Tommy stayed alone, doing his homework—he was in Year 3 and had afternoon classes. He’d heat up his lunch, eat, and head to school. By evening, it all started over.
“Did your dad kick off again last night?” asked Mrs. Higgins, the neighbour from next door.
“Yeah,” Tommy nodded shortly.
“Why doesn’t your mum call the police?”
“Gotta go—late for school,” Tommy hurried off.
“Go on then, run along,” Mrs. Higgins sighed, watching him leave.
When Tommy got home from school, Mum was cooking dinner. Dad wasn’t there—thank goodness. He sat at the table, rattling off simple school news. Then he said life was better without Dad, and maybe he shouldn’t come back. Mum shot him a disapproving look.
“He’s going through a rough patch, love. Once he finds work, things’ll go back to normal.”
But Dad came home, crashing about in the hallway, dropping things, grumbling. Mum tensed up, peeking out from the kitchen.
“Go to your room,” she whispered, nudging him away.
He sat listening. But tonight was different. Quieter. Then Mum let out a sharp cry—something heavy thudded to the floor. Tommy crept out and peeked into the kitchen. Dad stood legs apart, glaring at Mum sprawled on the tiles. Tommy gasped. Dad turned, eyes bloodshot.
“Son,” he slurred.
Tommy bolted out and hammered on Mrs. Higgins’ door, trembling. She didn’t catch half his panicked explanation but called 999 anyway. The police and ambulance arrived nearly together. Dad was hauled off; Mum was taken to hospital. Tommy spent the night at Mrs. Higgins’.
The next morning, they visited Mum. She lay alone, tangled in tubes. She didn’t wake, not even when Tommy shook her arm. The doctor led Mrs. Higgins out. Tommy stayed, shaking Mum again and again. Bored, he wandered off to find Mrs. Higgins and overheard the doctor say, “She’s in a coma—unlikely to wake, but we’ll hope…” Terrified, he ran into the hospital gardens.
Mrs. Higgins found him on a bench, crying all the way home. At hers, she asked, “Any family?”
“Gran’s in Devon.”
“Far?”
“Bus to Exeter, then three miles on foot.”
“Know the way?”
“I’m not a baby,” Tommy scowled.
“I’ll take you tomorrow,” she said.
But in the morning, her friend’s daughter called—her mum was dying. Mrs. Higgins flustered.
“I’ll put you on the bus. You’re a big lad.”
At the station, she asked the driver to keep an eye on him. Tommy dozed off to the engine’s hum, waking only when a passenger shook him.
“Oi, we’re here.”
He stepped off. People scattered. Alone on the country lane, fear prickled—but the sun shone, leaves crunched underfoot. He hummed for courage: *”D’you hear the people sing, sing, sing…”* Mum used to sing it with him.
Past one village, then another with a shop, then Gran’s. As he passed the first, a whistle cut the air. Two lads lounged on a fallen tree.
“Who’re you?” the taller one sneered. “Never seen you round here.”
“Visiting my gran.”
“Skiving off school?”
“Nah, just… gotta be here.”
“Got any fags?” the younger piped.
“Mum says smoking stunts your growth,” Tommy said.
They howled. “Listen to ’im! ‘Mum says…’ What else she say? What you got?” The tall one yanked Tommy’s rucksack.
“Give it back!” Tommy lunged, but the lad shoved him, rifling through. Clothes, a book, forgotten sandwiches spilled out.
“My mum used to shag blokes and tell me to ‘go play’ for hours,” the older jeered. “Yours dump you at Gran’s to get you out the way?”
Tommy snapped. Mum was in hospital, and these… He charged, but they knocked him down, pinning him. The younger fished out a tenner—Mrs. Higgins’ bus money.
“Rich boy!” he crowed.
Tommy scrambled up, grabbing at the note. A scuffle—boots, fists. He caught a sleeve, but the taller flung him back. His head cracked against the tree…
A wrinkled face hovered over him. “Lord, what’ve they done to you? Who are you?”
Tommy stood, aching, mind blank. His T-shirt was torn; no rucksack, no jacket.
“Come on, clean you up,” the old woman said, leading him home. Helpless, he wanted to sob. Fed and washed, she locked him in (“so you don’t vanish”) and fetched the village chair.
“Keep him tonight, Doris. Bobby’ll sort it tomorrow.”
Next day, a young PC arrived. Tommy just blinked blankly. The officer snapped a photo—his face swollen, eye blackened—and took him to the station, then a care home.
“Sorry, lad. No one’s claimed you. You’re off to Moorcroft House.”
Tommy didn’t care.
At the home, the kids sniffed out his amnesia, bullying him. Nights were worst—blanket over his head, fists flying. He stopped sleeping, hitting first, earning staff scoldings. The others called him “Psycho Jake.”
Teachers labelled him a troublemaker, but he aced lessons—rules stuck, even if he didn’t. They named him Jake Turner after the village where he’d been found. It felt wrong, but what choice was there?
Months later, Christmas Eve, sponsors arrived with gifts (most nicked by staff—kids got a few sweets). Jake crammed his into his mouth under the stairs, sick after.
“Concert’s on—you’re singing!” a carer hissed, dosing him with strong tea.
The music teacher spotted his voice. “But sing something festive!” she urged, prepping for the show. He refused—only *”Do You Hear the People Sing?”* The head backed him.
“Breaks my heart every time. Might squeeze more cash from the sponsors.”
The hall glittered with paper snowflakes. Kids performed skits; then Jake’s turn. Shaking, he sang softly at first—then stronger, till even the staff wiped tears.
Applause erupted—then a woman burst in, eyes locked on him.
“Tommy!” she cried, rushing forward as the head flapped.
“Not Tommy—Jake Turner! A proper little terror, this one—”
“I’m his mother!” She reached him, cupping his face. “Remember the cut from the seashell? Or Mittens, the cat who ran off? The dog bite when you were five?”
Girls sniffled; boys sulked. Lucky git—getting rescued.
In the office, she pointed out birthmarks, scars. Tommy blinked—flashes returned. Mum in a hospital bed, wires everywhere. Dad looming over her. The doctor’s words…
“Mum?” he whispered.
She hugged him, kissing his face. Memories kaleidoscoped—then the big question.
“You taking me home?”
“Of course.”
The head balked. “Paperwork! Who knows where you’ve been—”
“I’m not leaving without him.” Mum stood firm. “Shall I tell your sponsors how you ‘lose’ their donations?”
Grudgingly, the head relented. Tommy clung to Mum’s hand as they left.
“Silly boy,” she laughed later. “That doctor was phoning about another patient.”
Now he remembered the bullies. He’d make them pay—but not yet. One thing nagged him.
“Will Dad come back?”
“No. DivAnd as they stepped into Gran’s warm, lamp-lit cottage, the smell of mince pies wrapping around them like a promise, Tommy finally let himself believe that home wasn’t just a place—it was wherever Mum held his hand.
