Down London Road

her watching some daft talk show while I went off to do the food shopping.
    I squinted at the electricity bill. I doubted I’d be able to figure it out; I could never understand how the tariffs worked. However they were calculated, they put me out of pocket. ‘Assholey scumsuckers,’ I hissed, throwing the bill on the coffee table and ignoring the startled look from Cole, who was still wearing his school uniform. Ever since he got old enough to start emulating me, I’d watched my language around him. I hated slipping up.
    If I pretended I hadn’t said it, then maybe he would too.
    I flopped back on the couch and closed my eyes against the light in hopes that it would ease the headache behind my eyes.
    I heard Cole shuffling around, followed by the sound of a drawer being opened seconds before something small landed on my chest. I peeled my eyes open and glanced down at the tiny missile.
    Nicorette Gum.
    I felt my mouth quirk up at the corner and looked up at Cole from under my lashes as he stared down at me. ‘I don’t need the gum any more.’
    Cole gave me the grunt and shrug that were becoming all too familiar this year. ‘You swore a lot when you were trying to quit smoking.’
    I arched an eyebrow. ‘I quit over three months ago.’
    He gave me that damn shrug again. ‘Just saying.’
    I didn’t need a cigarette. I needed sleep. Okay, sometimes I really
wanted
a cigarette. The desperation had finally gone – that jittery rawness inside my body where every nerve ending felt like it was screaming at me for a cigarette. I swear I could have ripped someone’s face off for a cigarette during those first few weeks after quitting. I’d like to say that I was motivated to quit smoking because it was the right thing to do. But no. I’d seen some of my friends attempt to quit and had not fancied going through the ordeal of it. I had enough going on in my life without adding squashing an addiction to the list. No, I quit smoking for the one thing in the whole world that meant anything to me, and right now he was folding his tall body back on to the floor, where his own comic book drawings were scattered in front of the television.
    Cole had asked me to quit years ago when he first found out that cigarettes ‘were bad’. I hadn’t done it then because he’d never really pursued the issue, being that he was seven years old and more interested in
Iron Man
than in my bad habits.
    Then a few months ago his health class was shown a pretty disgusting video of the damage smoking did to thelungs and the consequences … such as lung cancer. Now, Cole is a smart kid. It’s not like he didn’t know that smoking killed. Since every cigarette packet had a bold print label over it that said SMOKING KILLS , I’d be pretty worried if he hadn’t known.
    However, I don’t think it had occurred to him until then that smoking could kill
me
. He came home in a belligerent mood and flushed all my cigs. I’d never seen him react so strongly to anything before – his face almost purple with emotion, his eyes blazing. He demanded that I quit. He didn’t have to say anything else – it was written all over his face.
    I don’t want you to die, Jo. I can’t lose you.
    So I quit.
    I got the patches and the gum and went through the horrendous withdrawals. Now that I didn’t have to pay for the patches and gum, I was saving money, especially since the price of cigarettes just kept climbing. It seemed to be socially unacceptable to smoke anyway. Joss was absolutely ecstatic when I told her I was quitting, and I had to admit it was nice not having to put up with her wrinkling her nose at me every time I returned from break smelling like cigarette smoke. ‘I’m fine now,’ I assured Cole.
    He kept sketching a page in the comic book he was creating. The kid was seriously talented. ‘What’s with the swearing, then?’
    ‘Price of electricity has gone up.’
    Cole snorted. ‘What hasn’t gone up?’
    Well, he would know. He’d been watching the news avidly since he was four. ‘True.’
    ‘Should you not be getting ready for work?’
    I grunted. ‘Aye, okay, Dad.’
    I was awarded another shrug before he bent over his sketch pad again, the signal that he was preparing to tune me out. His strawberry blond hair slid over his forehead and I fought the urge to brush it back. His hair was getting too long, but he wouldn’t let me take him to the barber’s to get it cut.
    ‘You done your