Broken. Daniel Clay
corpse. Jed punched Skunk's shoulder in triumph. ‘Loser! Loser!’
‘Stupid game,’ Skunk shouted, and threw her own control down. ‘And you're stupid too. Broken Buckley isn't an axe-murderer-psycho-killer. You're full of shit and I'm not playing with you any more.’
She stormed out of Jed's room.
Inside her own room, she stared nervously out of the window. Broken was still in the back of his father's car. His face was pressed against the headrest of the driver's seat. Although Skunk couldn't see it, his hands were turning in his lap and his lips were moving as well. No sounds were coming out of his mouth but, in his head, Broken was clinging to an image: it consisted of a field sloping gently southwards. Broken had no idea where this image had come from, but for a few days after each injection he was able to go to this field and find some sort of relief. It was always peaceful in the field. Instead of the sound of Saskia Oswald's laughter and the sound of Bob Oswald's fists hitting flesh, there was only ever the sound of birdsong and wind in the trees. Broken felt safe in the field. Outside of the field, in broad daylight, Saskia Oswald might come on to him and laugh at the size of his penis. Bob Oswald might attack him. Inside of the field, neither of them could find him; neither of them could hurt him. Broken sat in the back of his father's car and felt at least he was safe.
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