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.