Monday. First proper day of the summer holidays.

I should be wolfing down my breakfast and then scooting down to the field to play footie all day with the lads. But of course, I’m not. I am more concerned with swallowing my painkillers on time.

I must have only had a couple of hours’ kip last night. It feels like Sergei’s mate Chopin is playing one of his Nocturnes up and down my leg – with a sledgehammer.

‘Dr Hall did say it would be tough for a few days,’ Dad says, as if that makes it all OK. He pops the second pill out of its plastic bubble and hands it to me.

‘Can’t we get any stronger painkillers than this?’ I swallow the second tablet down with a swig of tea. ‘I can’t stand this throbbing all day; it’ll drive me nuts.’

‘These are quite strong . . .’ Dad inspects the label on the packet. ‘You can only take them every four hours, too.’

Great. Every day, my life gets to be more of a train wreck.

‘Let’s get you into your chair.’ Dad turns and calls out, ‘Sergei!’

Seconds later, in Sergei bounces with that smug look pasted on to his face.

‘Here I am, Pete.’ He’s all eager to please. The creep.

He drapes my other arm around his shoulders, and between them they manage to get me across the hall into the living room.

By the time I get my bum on the seat cushion, I’m dripping with perspiration and my leg feels like it’s on fire.

‘I’ll pick your crutches up today,’ Dad says, moving the table lamp next to me and placing my mug of tea next to it. ‘Not as they’ll be any use to you at the minute, but Dr Hall said, as soon as you feel up to it, you can start to move around a bit on them every day.’

I smirk as I think about the satisfaction I’d get from wrapping one of those crutches around Sergei’s head when he’s buzzing around me like a fly. Then I feel bad when I think about how he’s trying to help me. I can’t help wondering if I’d have been as caring if he’d been the one mowed down . . .

‘That is better, Calum,’ Sergei trills. ‘Keep your neck up.’

Dad laughs. ‘Chin up, Sergei. It’s chin up.’

‘Ah, thank you, Pete. One day, I will get the hang of your strange British sayings.’

‘Your English is brilliant, lad – isn’t it, Calum?’

‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘I suppose.’

Dad has got some local jobs on today, so he’s not back home until later. It seems like he really did mean it at the hospital when he said he’d be spending more time at home.

When he’s gone to work, Angie brings me in an omelette and a sliced tomato. For breakfast.

I look down at the food but I don’t touch it.

‘You must eat, Calum.’ She plonks her hands on her hips.

‘I don’t want it.’

She never even asked what I fancied. Who eats anything but cereal for breakfast?

It wasn’t that long ago, I could do what I liked. I made all the decisions in this flat when Dad was working away. Now I’ve got somebody else’s mum acting like she’s my mother, too.

‘Come on. Just a few mouthfuls.’

‘I. Don’t. Want. It.’ I don’t look at her and she whisks the tray away.

‘You know, you have got quite grumpy spending so much time alone,’ she teases me. ‘Luckily, you have us now, to keep you company.’

Angie goes to work and Sergei sidles back into the living room.

I don’t know why, but I keep thinking about my mates. Linford, Jack and Harry – their faces shuffle in my mind like a pack of playing cards.

‘I could build my next model in here, next to your chair?’ Sergei offers. ‘Perhaps you would like to watch how it is done.’

I grit my teeth as another flash of agony shoots from my hip, all the way down into my foot.

‘Or perhaps we could—’

‘Can’t you just leave me alone?’ I snap. ‘I’m tired and I need these painkillers to start working. I can’t even think straight with all this pain, never mind watch you play with building kits, like a big kid.’

‘Of course.’ Sergei walks backwards a few paces. ‘You know, you are not the only one hurting, Calum. Do you ever think of anyone except yourself and how you are feeling?’

I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him, but his words echo in my ears like they want to be heard.

By mid-morning the sharpness of the pain has dulled slightly.

My legs don’t feel like they’re being pummelled and jabbed with knives any more, but now the constant dull throbbing is back and I’m starting to worry I might have to put up with it forever.

I decide to compose a text to send to Jack and Harry.

Got knocked over on estate on Fri. Can’t walk, bored stiff. What you up to?

I delete the words ‘bored stiff’ as that makes me sound a bit sad.

Bad news spreads fast on the estate, so I know they’ll have all heard about the hit-and-run. Dad showed me a paragraph in Saturday’s Nottingham Post. It said the police were appealing for witnesses.

I purposely keep the text message simple, but hope they might be curious about what happened and want to know more. The two of them might come round later; they probably regret everything that’s happened between us now.

I replace ‘Can’t walk’ with ‘Pins in leg’. Sounds more impressive. And painful.

It’s best to let them know how serious it is. When bad stuff happens to people you care about, it makes you realize what’s important.

Got knocked over on estate on Fri. Pins in leg. What you up to?

I fire off the text and wait.

And wait.

I stare at my phone on the arm of the chair.

The screen remains blank and unlit. Nobody replies.