The Dark Emperor's Curse (updated Mondays and Thursdays)

The Forgotten Letters

The brown bag sat on our kitchen table winking at me, willing me to open it. Nope, it was more a sack like a scraggy scarecrow's head. Some big print on the side said 'HM Royal Mail'. Who was HM? As I sat there watching Dad dishing up the Chinese, I wondered how long to wait before asking him about the mysterious HM. You see, Dad was having a 'down' day. He often got like that. Like he'd forgotten we even existed. Granny said he used to be a happy man a long time ago...before it happened.

My big sister, Tilly was drumming her perfect pink talons on the table. 'Oh come ON Dad – I'm starving!' she moaned, grimacing at a snagged nail – tragedy had struck now they weren't all the same length.

'Tilly, give it a rest – I've had a long day,' said Dad, tripping over a cardboard box, dropping some rice on the floor as he rushed to put the hot plates on the table. A load of stuff fell out of the box; one of my dinosaur models and my football trophy for being top goal scorer along with a chick-lit DVD of Tilly's – eugh! The wire of a mangled desk lamp from the box caught Dad's foot.

'Oh I wondered where that'd gone,' he said vaguely, shaking it off while slamming our plates on the table. 'There!' Wiping sauce from his high brow, he pushed his thick hair from his sad brown eyes. 'Sweet and sour king prawn balls.'

'Yum, my favourite,' I said.

'Oh yes,' said Dad vaguely, opening more takeaway boxes on the table. 'Flora's favourite.'

That's me, Flora. Flora Dimwitty actually.

'Thanks Dad,' I said, watching him flop down at the table, knocking off one of the white takeaway boxes. Prawn crackers spewed onto the floor like swirling flames from the red dragon's mouth decorated on its side.

It didn't really matter 'cos our house was never tidy, always having a 'just moved in' feel. Cardboard boxes lay everywhere waiting for us to unpack. But there was never enough time; before long, we'd be on the move again. There'd always be some lame excuse like 'your bedroom's too small' or 'the job wasn't for me' but then our bedroom was always too small and no job was ever for Dad unless it was to do with looking after crusty old stuff in museums – but those jobs were hard to come by he told us.

'Dad?' I said peering from under my shaggy brown mop, spilling florescent orange sauce down my Skankton United football top.

He was staring into space, his eyes had glazed over. He was thinking about it again.

'Dad!'

'Umm?' A stone hit our window and Dad dropped his fork. He leapt to his feet and pinned his nose against the window.

'It'll just be those losers down the road you always go on about,' said Tilly, looking at her dinner like a pool of sick.

Dad's eyes scanned the garden; his knuckles were white, gripping the draining board.

'It's just kids Dad,' I reminded him. We always seemed to live near the rough part of town 'cos Dad always moaned about the dumb kids which explained why he got mugged a lot and why he slept with a golf club under his bed. But we couldn't afford to live anywhere else.

He dragged his eyes back into the room but they kept darting back to the window while he was eating his Chinese.

'Dad?' I asked again.

'Yes?' said Dad in a way which meant he knew I was about to ask something I shouldn't.

'Who's HM?'

'What?' said Dad, his face just like Tilly's when I try to explain the 'Offside Rule'.

'HM – on your bag?' I pointed to the bag at the end of the table.

'Oh that!' said Dad, he seemed glad I'd given him something else to think about 'cos he stopped glancing out the window. 'Well, I was just leaving work when Big Al came over with it – asked if I could sort through it. Ran out of time this afternoon so I brought it home to have a read over a glass of wine.'