Matthew Twelve: Chapter Six

And this was the way of it for weeks, seemingly without end: his mother a silent figure withering from view, his father a towering bully; insignificant days passed at school followed by letters home that banked up along with persistent correspondence from the doctor's surgery.
The man never seemed any cleaner one day to the next, his grubby face haunted Matthew's mind and each time Matthew felt himself growl and shake with hot rage just as the dog did whenever it saw the man through the window or a gap in the door.
At night the man never seemed to sleep and paced the hall outside; Matthew couldn't imagine an end.  His mother was no use, but then she never had been; when he remembered back he always saw this, the figure of a woman silhouetted in a frame, immobile and dull of eye.  He remembered at first she had sought out help, but gradually this came to an end and the letters started to come.  It was as if the first ten years of his life were nothing.  A black memory.  There were photos of a boy in the house, but it wasn't him even though he had the same hair, the same looks.  The boy had a smile.
Two months passed by and on a Wednesday his teacher held him back, speaking to him clearly, calmly.  His voice was soothing and it chipped at Matthew's resolve, the teacher saw the edge of a tear, but nothing more.
Matthew missed the bus and his father's voice raked at the edges of his mind leaving cruel clefts of hatred there.  Matthew waited for the bus, but the time slowed and eased its way on, indifferent to the building sense of urgency in Matthew's bones.  His skin crackled and his brow seemed to fever, until the bus eventually drew alongside.  The dog was no where to be seen.
Matthew launched himself from the bus steps and hurled through the wood, his feet clawing at the ground faster and faster.
He broke through the tree line and on to the lawn where the man stood, a belt in his hand and the dog at his feet.

*

Matthew charged at his father, but the belt whipped out, the buckle catching his cheek, the shock made him miss a step and he tripped and fell.  His father's knee burrowed in to Matthew's back and the growl that broke forth was not his but his father's; hot saliva dripped against the sides of his now muddied face and the sneering, gruff animal voice of his father barked inside his mind tearing and biting at his senses.  In the black pitch of his soul Matthew rumbled with fear, hatred and his anger boiled, but he was powerless, pinned to the floor.  He gnashed and spat and bit at the soft earth until his father rolled him over, holding him firmly at the throat.  Matthew's eyes opened, blood red at the edges, he stared up at the man his mother had called his father and saw the man before him who now had a muzzle with brown and broken fangs that dripped with bitter white foam.
His father's voice crawled its way out of the animal's throat.  "Stay!"
All the fight disappeared.  Matthew lay there and watched as the man stepped back, picked up the belt and stepped over the dog, moving back to the house and disappearing into the shadowed hallway.
Finally Matthew rolled over and rested at the dog's side.
It wasn't cold, but it was dead.  The heat of its body was slowly drifting away.  Matthew's fingers froze aloft the brindled flank, the downy fur was matted and damp and at the dog's mouth a small amount of blood had clotted.
Matthew buried his dog in the woods, marking the spot with soft, sad tears.  The dog had felt like a gift, something he hadn't had in years.  In that moment he remembered his birthday, the last one his mother had been there for.  There was a cake, candles, presents and in that same moment of remembering he knew it was his birthday the following day.  He would be thirteen.
He turned back to the house, a sense of expectancy hanging on his shoulders.
The man followed Matthew to his room and shut the door.  From the other side he didn't see the smile on Matthew's face.  Now he knew, knew what the man was, knew what he was.
Sleep came quickly.  Too quickly.  His dreams were gone and he felt buried by blackness.  He didn't hear the handle to his mother's room turn, or her padding down the stairs.  He didn't feel the chill draught creep up from the open door, stealing the heat from her room.
The man slept too, an emptied tumbler of alcohol staining his trouser leg.
His mother disappeared in to the night air, following the path to the creek.

Matthew Twelve: Chapter Five

In the night Matthew crept back up to the house and edged to the skirt of light thrown out from the living room windows.  His mother sat in an armchair, motionless, her eyes downcast.  The man paced back and forth, a glass in his hand.  He hadn't changed and was as grubby as the first day Matthew had seen him in the woods.  The dog lay beside him, its belly flat against the damp grass; it let out rhythmic growls that shook the folds of skin at its neck and ever so occasionally followed a series of growls with a short whimper.
The man gradually became louder and Matthew moved to the front door.  Below the reception table there was a bag of clothes for PE.  He planned to take them and maybe a coat to see him through the night.
Lifting the latch as tenderly as he could he pushed the door in on itself and reached in for the bag.  Next he caught the cuff of his coat and tugged until it slid away.  The crack and tremble of tree branch alerted Matthew to a gathering gust and he began to retreat, but not quick enough to stop the gust from forcing its way in and slamming shut an open door somewhere inside.  He ran for the trees.
The man wrenched open the front door shouting and screaming into the night.
"Come back, boy.  Be a good boy.  Get back before you feel the back of my hand!"
He carried on like this while Matthew hunkered down at the wood's lip.  He saw his mother move past the man framed in the light, but he caught hold of her wrist as she attempted to make for the stairs, slamming the door behind him.  A series of crashes and screams followed and then, nothing.
Matthew, using the wood's cover, moved to the side where he could see his mother's bedroom window, holding his breath, wishing it to break away from darkness and into light.
Shadows moved and the light breathed an orange glow into the room as the bulb warmed up, becoming whiter.
His mother was at the window.
Matthew felt the dog push against his sides and he moved off.  The boathouse at the bottom of the creek would do tonight.
He left behind his mother and the man she called his father.
The boathouse was damp and the draught seeped up between boards and in from the rotten doorway out to the water, but the dog and towel from his PE bag helped to warm him up.  His dreams took him once more to the creek, the dog by his side and his eyes fixed on the waves cantering after one another.
In the morning his father stood outside, waiting.  He was hauled and dragged all the way back up to the house, the dog barking, racing in and biting at the man's ankles but it made no difference.  The kitchen door slammed shut on the hound's bared maw and the man threw Matthew into his mother's room.
True to his word, Matthew was soon covered in blotchy purple shadows frothing up to the surface of his skin, along his arms, his legs and all the while he was almost smacked asunder his mother lay mute in her bed, listening but not hearing, watching, but not seeing.

*

The dog's face could be seen popping up from behind bushes and at the sides of hardy trunks rearing up from the earth, like bars holding the house back from the world.  Matthew sat at the glass, looking out.  Rusted metal splinters had been screwed into the window frames, now not even the air could slip in or out: the house had become a prison.

Occasionally the dog barked from the confines of the wood, but this only served to remind Matthew of the mess he was in.  He had been called down twice over the day to make his mother's breakfast and then her supper.  There wasn't much in the fridge, the man had pawed it up into his mouth as Matthew buttered bread and heated the kettle, knowing none of it would be eaten.  His mother hadn't eaten properly in months.  She hardly drank; she missed doctor's appointments; in the space of a year Matthew had become her carer, shopping, cleaning, cooking.  He had no friends to tell and now everyone at school was set against him because of his behaviour the week prior.

The man stepped into Matthew's room, a belt in hand.

"What's wrong with her?"

He repeated the question and Matthew looked up into his cold dark eyes.

"The doctor can't decide."

He grunted.  "She hasn't eaten."

"Then you eat it."

He smiled and Matthew saw the crumbs at the lip edge of his beard: "I have."

They both glared at each other for a time before the man announced that school was still on.  He didn't need to threaten him, he just smiled and shut the door.

Matthew's dream didn't shift, he was at the creekside again.

The man's cold face watched him as he ate breakfast and made his lunch.  He wouldn't queue for dinner today, he would hide away somewhere.

The man's words crept into Matthew's head as he stared at him: You keep quiet.  You stay quiet.

"I'm your father, you know.  You do what I say."

Matthew felt the man's eyes on him as he walked down to the path, the dog greeting him there, jumping and licking and whining.  It wasn't until he was out of sight of the house he sat down and fussed the dog, tears welling in his eye but quickly blinked back.

He looked back.  A hungry fog lifted up from the ground and followed Matthew to the bus stop.

Each lesson passed slower than the last, minutes felt like hours.  He heard teachers shouting and occasionally realised it was aimed at him.  He copied the date and the title into his books, but copying was all he managed.  He lost his break to a detention; he lost his lunch to a detention.  Each teacher tried to reason with him but he just muttered a response and looked away from them.

At the end of the day he heard his father calling to him: Home time, Matthew.

Matthew Twelve: Chapter Four

Fragrant coffee slipped through the house like a welcome ghost; Matthew hoped again that his mother would come down, maybe sit with him this morning.  He left the letter from school between the sugar bowl and the butter at the table alongside another letter from the doctor.  This time there was a hospital appointment she was expected to attend.  The second one.
His dreams had plagued him in the night.  Standing at the edge of the creek that led out to the sea, he was aware he was looking for something there; his eyes surveyed the dark lines of waves as they were thrown up and the dog beside him occasionally whined.  The sense of the dream hung with him, at the back of his mind, like a familiar taste.
The journey through the wood was a careful one.  He had the dog with him this time and he intended to take him all the way to school.  But for all his worry, he didn't see the man again and keeping the dog at the heels of his feet he managed to shuffle aboard the bus without any bother.  School would be an entirely different matter.
Matthew was the last to step down from the bus.  The driver had seen the dog of course, but didn't seem to mind.  Stepping on to the grass, Matthew heaved a sigh and looked about for a hiding spot, but before he could move away the dog sprang away and quickly disappeared.
Lessons went by; Matthew's attention was held by the skies outside that seemed to be boiling with cloud moving in from the sea.  Huge tumbling formations bundled and twisted over each other in peals of greys and slate colours.  All day they hung there teasing along the coastline.
In the queue for food he heard his name used around him, but it flitted about like an idea at the edges of his mind.  The dinner lady ticked his name from the free school meal list and let him move away, his squeaking polystyrene box held tight in one hand.  Outside he stood and absently swallowed the food down, all the time scanning the brooding sky and occasionally looking out for the dog.
When his knees crunched into the ground his food slipped from his hand and spilled across the playground; a foot kicked his sides and he lurched away, but was shoved down again and again.  Hands gripped him under the arms and carried him towards the bramble hedgerow where he was hurled and left to unpick himself from the nipping bite of the thorns.  He saw the boys as they ran away and recognised each one of them from his form group.
The care assistant phoned home, but Matthew knew there would be no answer, not even from the mobile number he had given them at the start of term.
The afternoon was spent alone in isolation, work was sent but this time he failed even to lift a pen. 
The deputy head he had spoken to the day before came to see him, but Matthew wouldn't speak; he mumbled, but the man didn't understand and seemed to become annoyed with Matthew.  All he wanted was their names: Matthew mumbled and looked in his direction, but couldn't meet his eyes.

*

Ringing out a call to freedom, the school bell signalled the end of Matthew's silent vigil.  Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he slowly made his way to the bus.  From the isolation room he had seen no one standing in wait and as he hopped on to the bus, the dog appeared and joined him, tucking itself between his legs, its jaw resting on his shoe's toe point.  No one noticed the dog, or no one seemed to mind; he couldn't tell and he wasn't bothered.

The days carried on like this for the rest of the week.  He took the dog to school: it disappeared.  He was shoved or pushed or spat on.  He became quiet, but the mumbling continued.  At home the recorded messages from school were soon deleted and letters were used to help the fire brighten up into a blaze.

He poured unfinished or untouched coffee, cold, down the sink.  He disposed of uneaten remnants from his mother's meals in the bin, or fed the hungry dog that always looked on and, more and more, followed him every step around the house.

When Saturday morning came he walked down to the creek, the dog at his heels.  It neither walked ahead or disappeared into the bush at the path's edge.  It became a shadow.

At the creek's side Matthew skimmed stones. Some plopped and disappeared into the black water, others found their way to the other side, bouncing off dry trunks and clattering against other rocks.  Wiping gritty dirt away from a fresh collection Matthew heard the dog begin to growl.  A low rumble rattling from its craw.
Moving to the edge of the creek and climbing to the brow of a stand of rocks, Matthew stood on tip toe looking back at the house.  From here he could see the kitchen door, open.  He had closed it.
He raced back up to the house, slowing as the kitchen light winked into life. A smile pounced onto his face, his mother was up, she was in the kitchen!
Matthew stepped into the warm air, closed the door behind him.  His mother was sat at the kitchen table, ashen faced, her hands hidden in her lap, a cup of tea whipping steamy yelps into the air.  The man sat opposite her, grease stained his clothes along with mud, his hair hung in cold wet streaks and as he turned Matthew saw again the man who had chased him, the man who had waited for him.
The dog barked.  It was outside.  Locked out.
The man smiled up at Matthew and rose, the chair's feet screeching along the tiled floor.  Matthew stepped back against the wall.  A tingling terror fought against his cheeks, his eyes glazed at the sight of the man nearing him.
"No!"
It was his mother.  He hadn't heard her speak in months.
The man sat back down, his eyes fastened to Matthew's, until a voice bent itself up against his ear.  The man's mouth didn't move, his lips were held shut, but he heard the voice, his voice: Mine.  You are mine.  It scratched and clawed at him, repeating over and over until his mother interrupted.
"Matt, this man is your father."
He didn't remember opening the door, leaving the house behind, splashing into the creek or disappearing into the woods at the other side.  It was dark when his mind came back to him, the dog at his feet.