I must've told Darren a hundred times after he floored me that I'd keep his secret. He said that if I told anyone what I'd seen, that he'd punish me so hard I'd beg him to stop. And just to remind me of it, every time we passed one another following that incident, he'd snatch me up by my collar, spit in my face and smear it all up to my eyebrows.

He never did it in front of his friends though. I could consider myself relatively safe all the times I'd catch him hanging around the back of B Block with a clutch of Special Brew, showing off his Nokia 6160. He didn't want to hurt me then, because he knew his mates would wonder why he was roughing up a twelve-year-old kid in the first place. So even though he would stare me down with those dark, haunted eyes, I knew I could at least avoid his unwarranted face wash.

Except for that, things were pretty normal for quite some time. Although... my version of normal and your version of normal probably don't align in many places. For starters my mum was binge addict – fast food, B-class drugs, cheap alcohol, it didn't ever matter – dole dossing off post-natal depression that ended eleven years ago. On the other end of the scale, my dad was Robert Breese. The film director? One and the same. He was always too busy abroad working on his latest production to call. But I didn't mind that much, I guess.

I think it's because of my mum and dad that I didn't make friends that well. I kept getting suspended. I'd get told I'm a bad kid, but I don't think I am. I'd be labelled a bully, but I never really meant to deal with things that way. I understand why people would call me that after all my tantrums, but Miss Martens never listened to me when I'd tell her I'm not bad.

Regardless, I'd been suspended for the fortnight after my ribs had healed for taking model glue into school.

There was a bag check. I'm guessing somebody grassed me in. I got called a glue-sniffer, had a letter sent home to mum that she never read, and got a suspension for it. I only had it in my bag because I was selling it to a kid in Year 11 who signed his street tag Bazmactix. I didn't even know who Bazmactix was, but the decision had been made by that point, because Miss Martens is constantly out to get me anyway.

You see, I was always getting mixed up in things with the older kids that I didn't understand, and because I didn't understand it, I couldn't defend my actions.

It was because of this that I lost my hearing, if only partially, but that's bad enough. You've probably already guessed who else it involves, and if you said Darren Worter, you're smarter than you look. But it was so long after I caught him making a move on Ervan that I'd almost forgotten about it.

Now... what I want to tell you next is a secret. A really big one. And you have to promise you won't tell anyone. But... sometimes when Mum is out at her boyfriend's for the day, I play dress up. Not like X-Men and shit. Just sometimes I wear my mum's jeans and her shoes, find out a cool top and a necklace to make it nice. Some people might stop me there and say it's sort of weird, and on the surface I never thought so, but there must've been a subconscious reason I'd always kept it a secret.

Sometimes I even went into her make-up bag and put some on, and I got pretty good at it, but at first I looked like a car accident. And I know what you must be thinking – this Rainer kid? He must be gay. That would be okay with me, but I'm not gay. I'm 12. It doesn't always work like that. I just get bored, and some kids read Harry Potter or watch cartoons, but me? We don't even pay TV license, so instead I like to play pretend.

This is just the thing I do.

Dressing up like my mum makes me happy though. It takes the edge off the blandness. If I had friends they would probably think this makes me extra weird. It don't really see it that way. I pretend I'm her for the day and I'll do all the dishes, read one of her magazines and then whiz around with the vacuum cleaner. There's usually something blasting out of the knock-off tape player Fat Steve gave me, too. I even pick up the landline and pretend to have a long conversation with somebody the other end who loves me and wants to know all about my make-believe day.

Sometimes I pretend it's an old friend.

Sometimes I like to pretend it's Tisha.

Sometimes it's my dad.

And it was a day just like this that would land me in hospital.

Before Mum came home from Carl's that night, I made sure I hung up her clothes in their usual order and her make-up bag was exactly the same as she had left it. I topped up her perfumes with a drop or two of water to disguise the fact I'd used them, and for years she'd never known the difference.

Around quarter to eight I pulled on my new pair of trainers that still rubbed at the heel and zipped up my baggiest blue hoodie. It was off to Terrance's to walk his dogs and pick up my Pall Malls like always. After that, I headed to the tin sheds, sat on my heels by number 27 and lit up.

"Hey, kid," came a voice.

I peered up from beneath my mop of strawberry blonde. It was Darren Worter and two of his mates, Raj and Dale, chomping noisily on chewing gum. I'd no idea how long they'd been loitering by the sheds or what Darren wanted with me, but I said nothing in case I received the special facial he reserved just for me.

"Got another one of those?"

"Huh?"

"Got another smoke, idiot?"

"Oh, uh..." I batted my pockets, already knowing the answer. "No."

His gaze dropped to the one in my fingers. "Gimme that one."

"Huh?"

He came closer. "Are you dense or something? Give me. Your. Cigarette."

I did as he said and transferred it to him. I pulled up my hood even higher. I couldn't let them see me up close. Not tonight.

In the low gold glow of the sodium street lamps he examined the butt of the cigarette before he put it anywhere near his lips. I'd hoped he wouldn't. I'd hoped he'd be too busy pushing me around to even care what it was I was smoking.

"The fuck's this?" He let out a long, wheezy laugh; the kind that would bring tears to the corners of his eyes. "The fuck's this red smudge about? You wearing lipstick, you little queer?"

Raj and Dale creased.

Darren yanked back my hood. "You are! Fuck me. You've got lipstick on!"

He took a single, lengthy draught on the cigarette and stamped it out on the ground as if he was making a point of crushing me out of existence too.

"Little puff," he smirked, letting loose a great plume of blue smoke inches from my face. "Oi, you listening? Come on, Rainer Gayner." He shoved my shoulder and I lost balance on my heels. "Pucker up. Kissy kissy kiss!"

"I don't kiss boys," I snapped at him. "And I'm not gay."

Their laughter crescendoed as I dodged Darren's advances.

"Stop it," I cut in. "Fuck off. Stop trying to kiss me, you idiot." And finally: "Why don't you try kissing Ervan, Darren!"

He froze and straightened up to his full height. Compared to me he was massive and terrifying, even if he was a touch on the scrawny side for his age. Raj and Dale hooted like a pair of owls, cheering Darren on. Clearly they didn't understand why I'd brought Ervan into the situation, but Darren no less did, and his top lip twitched the whole time.

"You wanna say that again, prick?"

Did I dare? No. Had I got the guts? Also no. I'd given him my word that I'd never tell a soul what I'd seen, and in return he gave me his that he'd break my face in six places if I didn't. I might not have been the most academic kid, nor had a spine of steel, but after growing up with a mother who dodged taxes and bailiffs like Fat Steve dodges the McSalad, I could spot a loophole when I saw one.

Darren had already dug his own social grave by shoving his macho act down people's throats, but in blackmail it's different. Would he beat me up in front of Raj and Dale seemingly for the crime of wearing lipstick? Unlikely. Besides, they would start asking questions. And really, what had I got to lose anyway?

"Yeah," I said through my teeth, getting to my feet this time. "Yeah, I do wanna say it again. I'm not the boy kisser!"

The heels of his palm met my shoulders with a force that chattered my teeth. The cheering and laughter ground to a deadly halt, and the three boys rounded me up.

"Think you're fucking funny, Rain!?" Darren screamed. "Shut your faggot face before I put a brick through it."

"Yeah?! Bet that's not what you say to Ervan when you –"

That time I did kiss the concrete. Probably popped my shoulder out of place for a moment too, judging by the pain, but I'm obviously no doctor. I instinctively curled myself up into a ball, face between my elbows, waiting for the barrage of kicks and punches to pop everything else out of alignment too...

But they never came.

Darren circled me, snorting heavily through his nose like a pitbull. The tension in the air choked me and I pulled my knees in even tighter. I couldn't bear the waiting.

"Want us to give him a warning?" said Raj.

"Yeah, kid'll think twice about mouthing off at you again," Dale added.

"Nah, nah," Darren replied. His streetlamp shadow dropped its fists. "He'll get his lesson. Not here. Not tonight. Not when he ever expects it." A pause. "You hear that, Rainer Breese? Some day you'll get your teeth knocked in so hard you'll be eating out your asshole. Piece'a'shit better keep one eye on dark corners from now on."