Saturday drags. I stay in all day. A few of my mates call and ask me to come meet up, but I tell them I don't feel well. They say everyone's talking about me and how I rescued the baby. I laugh it off like it's no big deal.
Dad takes us out to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. Mum dresses up and slaps makeup over her bruise. She and Dad share a couple of bottles of wine. He lets me have a sip when nobody's watching. Laughs when I grimace.
"Don't worry," he says. "You'll get used to it."
Dad's polite as he can be to the staff. Funny how he doesn't have a problem with foreigners when they're serving him food. Most of his favorite grub comes from overseas, Chinese, Italian, Indian. I consider pointing that out to him, but I don't want to set him off again.
Mum and Dad head to the pub after the meal, leaving me to guard the fort at home. Dad gives me a fiver and tells me to treat myself to some chips and sweets. He scratches my head and grins. I grin back. The aggro of yesterday isn't forgotten by any of us, but we move on, the way we always do. No point living in the past. We'd have burned out long ago if we held grudges.
I watch a film, surf the Web, download some new tracks, play a few games, go to bed late. I don't hear the old pair come home.
I get up about midday. Dad's still asleep. Mum's working on a Sunday roast. We're a bit stiff with each other. It always takes us a while to return to normal after Dad loses his temper. We're both embarrassed.
We eat at two. Dad's hungover but he still manages to polish off his plate. He loves roasts, never leaves more than scraps. He drinks beer with the meal, saying that's the only way to combat a hangover. Normally he praises Mum's cooking but he doesn't say much today, nursing a headache.
"That was nice," I mutter as Mum clears up.
"I've got dessert for later," Mum smiles. "Pavlova. Your favorite."
It's actually Dad's favorite, but I don't mind. We share a smile. Things are getting better. The air doesn't feel so tight around me now.
Dad watches soccer in the afternoon. I watch some of the match with him. I make a few scathing comments about Premiership players and how they're overpaid prima donnas. That's usually guaranteed to set him off on an enthusiastic rant, but today he just grunts, wincing every now and then, rubbing his head as if that will make the pain go away.
Some of Mum's friends come to visit. They don't say anything about her face, don't even ask if she had an accident. They start chirping about what happened at the War Museum but Mum shushes them before Dad kicks off again. They retreat to the kitchen and carry on in whispers.
I go to my room when the soccer's over and phone Vinyl, hoping he won't have heard about the museum. No such luck.
"I hear you're London's newest superhero," he chuckles.