Every household is different, every household has its quirks. When one child is invited to another's, for the very first time, there will even be a new smell in the air. It may be a kitchen smell, it may be a garden smell or the smell of washing damp on a radiator or dry in the tumble. One household may in fact be a flat: five rooms, four, three, two. Some children may not even invite anyone back. It may not be the size of their home or indeed the smell, it may be that when their door is at last opened to a stranger, that stranger will see the truth beyond the doorway's frame and that truth may not be a pleasant one to see reflected in another's eyes.
The toast popped away from the filament and was quickly spread with margarine, halved and laid on the plate. Leaving it on the table he took the coffee cup and stood at the stair's bottom. The bedroom door was ever so slightly ajar. The window panes, set in the wall and keeping track with the steps, allowed in a finger of light that lit up wisps of steam rising towards the door. Matthew returned to the kitchen leaving the mug at the toast's side and left via the kitchen door. This door he left ajar, ever so slightly. Moving the empty plant pot at the kitchen window's heel, he stepped up to the dirty glass. Carefully he tipped the pot over and used it to gain a better view, balancing on one foot then the next. The edge of the terracotta pot crunched and crumbed slightly as his weight shifted about, but he held his gaze steady on the kitchen table and the empty chair there.
The light flicked from the hall as something passed by and in to the kitchen stepped Matthew's mother, a light robe covered her with sprawling vines spread this way and that.
Matthew watched as she slowly sipped then nibbled and bit by bit finished the toast. A smile rose then as she drew herself up and stepped towards the door left ajar. He sat back on the pot. Smiled. Heard the creak of the garden chair and caught the scent of the coffee. It was the sun that had drawn her out and now she sat there, bathed in it, coffee resting at the table's edge.
Creeping in through the front door he readied himself for school, made the beds, making sure to firmly tuck in both sides of her duvet and open the window, left out a fresh towel and, as an experiment for today, took an empty mug from the rack, dropped a spoonful of coffee in, filled the kettle and went to school.
Today would be a good day, he could feel it. The lessons today were all favourites, though he didn't especially like the science teacher or the girl he sat beside. On the bus he sat alone, as was his custom. The girl he sat next to in science took the same bus and he saw her look at him then smile at a friend. The friend looked too. He shifted on his seat and looked out at the fields passing by, seeing his reflection, the dark rim around his eyes and the smudge around his neck.
The door was open wide when Matthew came home. He could see that the post had come: all the usual. He picked it up and screwed up the junk, taking it straight to the fire basket. The only remaining letter in his hand was from the doctor. He opened it, read it and resealed it before the gum dried out, leaving it at the side table in the sitting room.
The back door in the kitchen was still open. The coffee cup from the morning was still there and the empty cup with its spoonful of instant was untouched. He moved through the house quietly, searching. Every room was empty, upstairs and down.
Certain now that she wasn't at home he left and went into the woods. Around his house a thin spread of woodland touched the edges before giving way to fields rolling down to the water's edge and a short rocky beach. The rocks here were dark with seaweed and the ground made a wet crushing sound under his deft tread. But it was empty and so he began to circle back to the house along a path that shadowed a thick hedgerow.
She was sat at the bench, her body facing the water but her eyes somewhere else. Matthew watched her. Watched her silently.
In the evening he ate his dinner alone and afterwards made a list: butter, bread, oil. He wrote down everything that needed replacing, conscious of one thing missing. Upstairs he heard a board creak as his mother shifted her weight in bed. Matthew knew it meant she was dreaming tonight. Normally there wouldn't be the slightest movement after getting her into bed. She would lie there statuesque and he would watch to see that she carried on breathing in and out, in and out.
A bark came from outside. Matthew put his pencil down to listen. The bark was from outside the house, not the woods or the path. He heard it again and an accompanying scratch at the door. Flicking on the porch light, Matthew opened the door. A dog sat squarely at his feet forcing him to step back and as soon as he did so, it hopped in and settled down in the sitting room before the empty fireplace. Outside, a gust shivered through the air and the trees stirred up waving as Matthew closed the door.
The dog lay unmoving, curled in upon itself, refusing to rise and recognise him and so he sat in the armchair opposite, watching the dog. All the time the dog stared back and the two blinked at each other in the darkening light; with the drop of the sun a cold cursed through the house and Matthew was forced to lay a fire down. He took the balled up junk mail and made a bed of paper and kindling before building the fire up with larger logs and lighting the touchpaper. The cold retreated and he sat closely as the kindling cracked and spat and burnt up the edges of the wood and everything settled into place. The dog now moved and shifted and finally turned to lay its head on Matthew's knee. He wanted to jump back, but he equally wanted to stay like that all night.
In his dreams he saw himself standing at the water's edge, the dog standing by his side.
On a Saturday morning school became a foreign memory.
Matthew's hand drifted over the belly of the dog laid out before him. A thin line of hairs stood on end along the ridge of its back, dark against the light. He dipped a finger forward allowing it to catch and drag over like a distant gust. His fingers were splayed, almost an inch between the longest and his nails were beautifully clean after scrubbing them with his mother's nail brush every evening.
Underneath his hand the dog breathed on, deeply. Occasionally its face quivered from a dream, tickling the edges of its mind and spilling onto the sleeping jowls of its face. Equally, at times, the legs would shake, simulating a final mad dash for some faraway prey.
A shadow passed through the room; a solitary cloud strayed into the sun's sight, lingering longer than it was welcome, before moving into the east. Returning to the room, light blanketed every inch in rich, warm light. Matthew felt the breath of heat return to his outstretched hand, warming the thin skin above bone and blood-invested veins The corner room was always filled with light this way; it was at the eastern and southern point of the house, with windows giving way to folded views of green fields, or in later seasons, large yellow swathes of rapeseed that spilled up to high bordered hills.
Matthew could sit here, secluded and alone for hours, but now there was the dog.
They had never had a dog before.
The dog's ears twitched at a creak from above; the creak of the floorboard continued as his mother's foot planted its weight down. Footsteps slowly, quietly, drifted from the landing until reaching the hallway. The latch raised up on the kitchen door letting in a draught that slipped through the house and woke the dog.
Moving to the window seat Matthew watched her as she disappeared past the wood's edge, down toward the bench again. Taking his list from the night before he slid his empty shoes on and left the house, the dog beside him every step, bouncing and only occasionally looking up at Matthew.
Re-stocking never took very long, he counted out as near he could to the exact change. The girl at the counter always smiled. Matthew thought she probably smiled at the time he took to order the coins, by value, in his palm. Fifties, tens, twenties, pounds and coppers. The dog barked from outside and the girl's smile receded and she watched Matthew leave hurriedly.
Deciding to detour through the wood, Matthew swung the bag at his side, the dog took off and burst through hedges first ahead of him then emerging behind him, circling in a wild dash.
At the end of the path the house came just in to view and there he stopped, sucking in the wood's air and listening to the branches sway and wave.
The dog barked once and sat at the path's edge, looking back at him, a stern intensity in its eyes.
Matthew smelt smoke and saw a dark puff exhale from the kitchen door.
In bed, his mother turned from one side to the other, coughing and occasionally spitting into the bucket Matthew had left beside her. He had used a sponge to clean her face and now he watched as she moved about. The sound of the sheets shuffled and a lost bluebottle buzzed at the window, inches from escape through the opening there, but failing to realise. Gradually this became the only sound in the room as his mother eased her way into sleep. Matthew brought the sheet up tight to her, caught the fly and tossed it clear into the night air. Keeping watch on the woods, the dog sat in the garden, listening to shadows, turning once to the sound of Matthew at the window.
All night the dog sat there and in the morning Matthew fed it: cold meat from a can. Without school to worry about he took paint and brushes and hid the worst of the kitchen's soot under a fresh coat.
In the evening the fire was built up again and the dog exchanged its sentry post. Both he and Matthew stayed there like that for a second night.
In the morning Matthew set about his usual routine, tempting his mother out of bed, but she didn't rise and he was forced to leave her there, but before the dog could hop out through the door with him, he twisted and locked it in, though it grumbled and howled. School was no place for a stray dog.
Matthew reversed the detour he had used at the weekend and pushed on through the wood to the bus stop, though it was a longer route. The trees stood still today without a breath to move them or bring forth a familiar wave. Overhead the sky was clear, but it was chill and there was a dampness to the wood's air.
Seeing the open road ahead of him Matthew quickened his pace and saw the bus, on time, fly by. It would circle at the village's top just in time for him to catch it without wasting time standing silently with the others. In the distance he heard the dog's howl and turned as if to see the sound breaking through the trees' guard, but saw instead a lone man in shabby ragged clothes running toward him.
The day was long. Double science meaning two hours with the girl from his bus. PE, meaning humiliation again from the teacher who didn't like quiet boys. Tutor time with the absent tutor. The others laughed at how awful he was, but they all knew it wasn't right. Normally Matthew could laugh along with this, but today, with his mind on the man who had chased him, only found it irritating that Mr Parish didn't care for any of them. The fact that the PE teacher disliked him so much, today, felt unfair. Before now he had simply ignored the fact, but now he felt his neck redden with righteous anger. The girl from the bus, from his science class; the other girl in the shop: they had no right to look at him the way they did.
The bell rang. They could go.
Normally he ate his lunch alone and he attempted to do so again today, but the seat he had taken a liking to was filled with sixth formers and his other nooks seemed to be occupied too. Returning to the bench with the sixth formers he decided to wait, standing behind them, waiting for them to leave.
At first he was patient and stood as a statue might while its master chiselled at the chin or the arm, but the longer he waited the redder he became. He felt the blood pump at his neck; could feel the hot fat swell of blood pushing at the stiff collar, tight around his neck.
He moved a little closer.
After a while he moved closer still, until, had they been his friends, he might have seemed a part of the group.
Gradually the girls stopped talking and looked at him; they tried to carry on with their chatter, but again their attention returned to him. One of them asked him if he wanted something, but he just stood dumbly, hot, angry and silent.
He spat at them.
He couldn't believe it. He had spat at them, but it wasn't him. It wasn't something he would ever do, but he had done it.
They had all shot up; the girl with the spit in her hair screamed and they backed away.
He sat down and ate his mother's unfinished sandwich.
No one came. The girls left.
After lunch, in registration, a man appeared looking for Mr Parish and, finding him absent, asked for Matthew by name. He was quickly pointed out and taken away.
In the man's office he was asked if had spat at the girl, but he didn't reply. The man wasn't surprised he didn't speak, he had been talking to the teachers about his behaviour today and his PE teacher had reliably informed him that he was 'out of sorts'. At the mention of her name Matthew tingled.
Reaching for the phone, the man informed him he was calling home: Matthew spoke.
"I'm sorry, Sir."
"Sorry?"
"Yes", he mumbled back.
He spent the rest of the day in a small room alone. Work from his lessons was sent along and he completed all of it in very little time, however each time the care assistant looked in he held his pen and appeared to puzzle over some problem he had found. But when the door was closed fast he sat on the table and stared out through the window and wondered how to avoid the man with shabby rags standing near the bus stop.
Standing at the gates of the school, a letter for his mother from the care assistant and deputy head in his hand, he watched others step on to coaches, buses and fall into waiting cars. From his vantage point he could see that his bus was waiting at the usual spot, pupils piling on board. He could see too the man watching each and every one as they stepped up, until finally the man too stepped aboard ushered by the driver impatient to keep to time. Matthew had decided to take the next bus.
The bus for his village came every hour and so, as the sun grew quieter in the sky, the air became chill.
Matthew wondered what would happen at his stop. He wondered if the man would be waiting for him, or whether he had given up, or had been chasing him at all. Whatever the answer he had resolved to either get off at the stop before his, or the one shortly after. The stop in the village would allow him a shorter walk home, but the one before was longer. But despite the length of the longer journey, Matthew knew he would have a better chance tramping through the fields and using any number of routes, whereas his other options only gave him one. If that one route should be blocked by the man, then he would be trapped.
A different driver picked Matthew up. The bus was empty. The sun was quickly sinking into the horizon's borders, but it was still a clear sky and the light would be enough.
At the stop Matthew was careful to have a good look round before making the final step from the bus to the earth.
Before the bus pulled off, Matthew used it for cover as the wood embraced him. Thick twigs and branches clattered back together like a saloon door in a Western; Matthew waited for quiet to return before plunging further into the wood. The wood was thick here and at times, when branches persistently tugged at his jacket, he huffed and became annoyed that he could not have just walked home as normal. But then he remembered the weathered and dirty look on the man, the filthy beard and torn clothing.
At the wood's end he stood surveying the field. It was wet from the farmer's hose shooting spurts of water out in great arcing circles. The sound futtered and sliced through the air.
Timing his dash, Matthew ran through the field rather than around; his jacket was quickly soaked through but he outstripped the rotating hose and walked the last hundred metres of pathway along the hedgerow, climbing up to his house.
A single light was on in his mother's room meaning she hadn't thought to light the hall for him or the driveway.
He used the kitchen door and stuffed his jacket in the washing machine along with his other wet clothing while the dog jumped and licked at his hands; he let it out, though it seemed reluctant to leave him.
After a warm shower Matthew built the fire up and let the dog back in. It quickly bolted in through the gap knocking the door open and scraping its sides, turning it growled at the door as Matthew closed the door and bolted up.
In his dreams he and the dog stood at the water's edge, it seemed like the creek at the foot of the hill, but it was silent.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Matthew, 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 until morning light creaked at his eyelids.
Outside his father waited, both Matthew and the dog sensed him in the same moment and Matthew felt himself growl, grow hot with anger and tremble with revulsion.
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.
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.
At the end of the day he heard his father calling to him: Home time, Matthew.
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.
The face that looked back from the mirror in his room was not his own, but he stood in front of the glass all the same. His hands were ever so slightly stretched, the skin taut, his nails white and new. He felt his jaw work tightly, free itself and click dryly as he worked it loose. Staring back at him was an adolescent version of his father's face, it made him cringe, stepping back, and as he did so, his lip raised, quivering with fear or anger, he wasn't quite sure. Colours stormed him again and the room swam with patterns, blemishes, stains. He turned to the window on the world outside.
The wild greens and clustered hills retreated from his gaze and the new scrutiny he regarded them with. The water was calm, slate blue, reflecting the empty openness of the sky above.
For an hour he stood at the window as the colours swam across his vision, his sense of aspect and distance playing with his mind; like the foreign texture of new clothes, his senses battled with something that was familiar, but suddenly wasn't. He felt loose in his own skin, even though now it felt that more taut and stretched. The bones in his hands seemed more prominent under the skin, almost pointed or sharpened, even ridged.
It was his birthday. His thirteenth.
Opening the bedroom door, he quietly let himself out on to the landing and slunk along to his mother's room. The room was empty but for the bright light of the morning reaching in from the west. The skin on his arms dimpled and the hairs rose.
Using the edges of the stairs and avoiding the creaks at the centre of the boards, Matthew made his way downstairs. From the second step he could see that his father was still sleeping, the tumbler's contents adding to his stained trousers.
Stepping into the embrace of the morning air, the sharp sun warmed him. A long line lit out through the grass, which was bent at an obscure angle, leaving a sunken fold in the dewy blanket. He picked out its direction, caught the lasting smell of his mother's scent and trotted down towards the creek.
Under a line of trees, the light pierced the nimble wooden edges of limbs and shifting patterns formed, fell away, swimming together across the mossy earth.
When Matthew reached the verge above the beach, he halted and scanned the sand. Soft steps, pressed into the sand, drifted down to the water's lip. He stepped up to the first, before hearing the crash and heavy pad of his father's maddened dash towards him.
Retreating to the water, Matthew fell back, step by step until the water reached his haunches. His father stood at the bank staring past him, the frenzied fury frozen there; his breath sent out puffs of steam like little signals and Matthew followed his eyes.
The upturned body of his mother sat as still as a leaf, floating in the light, wanting ever so desperately to follow the absent tug of the tide. The woman lay there uselessly and Matthew regarded her now for what she was: weak, frail and dead.
The body of his mother drifted around him, the face upturned and the eyes open to the open sky, occasional splashes added fresh tears to the lifeless face.
Matthew's father sank against the bank, merging with the muddy verge, his eyes locked on his wife's body. In Matthew's eyes he saw the same woman who, for the past two years, had barely the energy, or will, to nod her head, wave goodbye or greet him at the door. The woman was as mobile now as she had been in the best portion of his memory and he stepped away from her, his bare feet raking up the mud from the creek's bed as he moved away from her and his father.
As he took purchase of the far bank his father stirred, shaking his head as it snapped and stretched into a foul an inhuman shape. The nose pushed out and fell in on itself becoming a sharp-pointed muzzle and the eyes clouded over, while his fingers seemed to break and stretch into wide-spaced things that could claw and slash.
Now on the bank, Matthew raced up into the far woods, hearing the splash and suck of his father in the water behind him, then the crash and crunch as he tumbled into the wood in pursuit. He heard his father's voice, foul in his head, it left a stink there, the stink of misery and grief, muddied and gravelled.
He was getting closer, but Matthew didn't slow, he had a new-found well of energy and he wasn't prepared to slow: not yet. The road was getting closer and if he could reach it he felt the creature wouldn't follow him beyond the wood. The first day he had seen the man came back to him, he recalled that weary desperation in his eye and the bus that drew up just in time. He remembered his dog and the man that stood over the limp remains.
The road was coming into sight, but his father's heavy crash was closer; Matthew cut up a bank tearing at the earth with his outstretched hands pulling himself on and away and on towards the road. He didn't stop to look, to think, to listen, but instead fairly flew across the cold tarmac and into a car's empty wake. Behind him the wet, angry eyes of his father lurched out of the shadows and he plunged into the road. The bus struck him at an oblique angle, the creature's body flying ragdoll-like into the air almost perpendicular to the ground that it was launched from. Wheels ground against the road, the smell of melting rubber filling the air, brakes screamed into the quiet and his father's bloody body fell to the roadside.
Matthew saw it all and it became a long-treasured memory.
He buried his mother's body beside the dog, he owed her that much, but he buried her deeply.
He began to respond, on her behalf, to the letters in the post; he carried on collecting the money from her bank account as he had before, making sure the money went out for gas and electric, water and council, just as he had before. He told the doctor there was no need of a follow up and commended the surgery on their support. He informed the school that Matthew's behaviour would be addressed. And he lived that way until it was no longer necessary; he was still quiet, reclusive, but his teachers had become accustomed to this and so life, quietly, carried on in his empty house.
The toast popped away from the filament and was quickly spread with margarine, halved and laid on the plate. Leaving it on the table he took the coffee cup and stood at the stair's bottom. The bedroom door was ever so slightly ajar. The window panes, set in the wall and keeping track with the steps, allowed in a finger of light that lit up wisps of steam rising towards the door. Matthew returned to the kitchen leaving the mug at the toast's side and left via the kitchen door. This door he left ajar, ever so slightly. Moving the empty plant pot at the kitchen window's heel, he stepped up to the dirty glass. Carefully he tipped the pot over and used it to gain a better view, balancing on one foot then the next. The edge of the terracotta pot crunched and crumbed slightly as his weight shifted about, but he held his gaze steady on the kitchen table and the empty chair there.
The light flicked from the hall as something passed by and in to the kitchen stepped Matthew's mother, a light robe covered her with sprawling vines spread this way and that.
Matthew watched as she slowly sipped then nibbled and bit by bit finished the toast. A smile rose then as she drew herself up and stepped towards the door left ajar. He sat back on the pot. Smiled. Heard the creak of the garden chair and caught the scent of the coffee. It was the sun that had drawn her out and now she sat there, bathed in it, coffee resting at the table's edge.
Creeping in through the front door he readied himself for school, made the beds, making sure to firmly tuck in both sides of her duvet and open the window, left out a fresh towel and, as an experiment for today, took an empty mug from the rack, dropped a spoonful of coffee in, filled the kettle and went to school.
Today would be a good day, he could feel it. The lessons today were all favourites, though he didn't especially like the science teacher or the girl he sat beside. On the bus he sat alone, as was his custom. The girl he sat next to in science took the same bus and he saw her look at him then smile at a friend. The friend looked too. He shifted on his seat and looked out at the fields passing by, seeing his reflection, the dark rim around his eyes and the smudge around his neck.
*
The door was open wide when Matthew came home. He could see that the post had come: all the usual. He picked it up and screwed up the junk, taking it straight to the fire basket. The only remaining letter in his hand was from the doctor. He opened it, read it and resealed it before the gum dried out, leaving it at the side table in the sitting room.
The back door in the kitchen was still open. The coffee cup from the morning was still there and the empty cup with its spoonful of instant was untouched. He moved through the house quietly, searching. Every room was empty, upstairs and down.
Certain now that she wasn't at home he left and went into the woods. Around his house a thin spread of woodland touched the edges before giving way to fields rolling down to the water's edge and a short rocky beach. The rocks here were dark with seaweed and the ground made a wet crushing sound under his deft tread. But it was empty and so he began to circle back to the house along a path that shadowed a thick hedgerow.
She was sat at the bench, her body facing the water but her eyes somewhere else. Matthew watched her. Watched her silently.
In the evening he ate his dinner alone and afterwards made a list: butter, bread, oil. He wrote down everything that needed replacing, conscious of one thing missing. Upstairs he heard a board creak as his mother shifted her weight in bed. Matthew knew it meant she was dreaming tonight. Normally there wouldn't be the slightest movement after getting her into bed. She would lie there statuesque and he would watch to see that she carried on breathing in and out, in and out.
A bark came from outside. Matthew put his pencil down to listen. The bark was from outside the house, not the woods or the path. He heard it again and an accompanying scratch at the door. Flicking on the porch light, Matthew opened the door. A dog sat squarely at his feet forcing him to step back and as soon as he did so, it hopped in and settled down in the sitting room before the empty fireplace. Outside, a gust shivered through the air and the trees stirred up waving as Matthew closed the door.
The dog lay unmoving, curled in upon itself, refusing to rise and recognise him and so he sat in the armchair opposite, watching the dog. All the time the dog stared back and the two blinked at each other in the darkening light; with the drop of the sun a cold cursed through the house and Matthew was forced to lay a fire down. He took the balled up junk mail and made a bed of paper and kindling before building the fire up with larger logs and lighting the touchpaper. The cold retreated and he sat closely as the kindling cracked and spat and burnt up the edges of the wood and everything settled into place. The dog now moved and shifted and finally turned to lay its head on Matthew's knee. He wanted to jump back, but he equally wanted to stay like that all night.
In his dreams he saw himself standing at the water's edge, the dog standing by his side.
Chapter Two
On a Saturday morning school became a foreign memory.
Matthew's hand drifted over the belly of the dog laid out before him. A thin line of hairs stood on end along the ridge of its back, dark against the light. He dipped a finger forward allowing it to catch and drag over like a distant gust. His fingers were splayed, almost an inch between the longest and his nails were beautifully clean after scrubbing them with his mother's nail brush every evening.
Underneath his hand the dog breathed on, deeply. Occasionally its face quivered from a dream, tickling the edges of its mind and spilling onto the sleeping jowls of its face. Equally, at times, the legs would shake, simulating a final mad dash for some faraway prey.
A shadow passed through the room; a solitary cloud strayed into the sun's sight, lingering longer than it was welcome, before moving into the east. Returning to the room, light blanketed every inch in rich, warm light. Matthew felt the breath of heat return to his outstretched hand, warming the thin skin above bone and blood-invested veins The corner room was always filled with light this way; it was at the eastern and southern point of the house, with windows giving way to folded views of green fields, or in later seasons, large yellow swathes of rapeseed that spilled up to high bordered hills.
Matthew could sit here, secluded and alone for hours, but now there was the dog.
They had never had a dog before.
The dog's ears twitched at a creak from above; the creak of the floorboard continued as his mother's foot planted its weight down. Footsteps slowly, quietly, drifted from the landing until reaching the hallway. The latch raised up on the kitchen door letting in a draught that slipped through the house and woke the dog.
Moving to the window seat Matthew watched her as she disappeared past the wood's edge, down toward the bench again. Taking his list from the night before he slid his empty shoes on and left the house, the dog beside him every step, bouncing and only occasionally looking up at Matthew.
Re-stocking never took very long, he counted out as near he could to the exact change. The girl at the counter always smiled. Matthew thought she probably smiled at the time he took to order the coins, by value, in his palm. Fifties, tens, twenties, pounds and coppers. The dog barked from outside and the girl's smile receded and she watched Matthew leave hurriedly.
Deciding to detour through the wood, Matthew swung the bag at his side, the dog took off and burst through hedges first ahead of him then emerging behind him, circling in a wild dash.
At the end of the path the house came just in to view and there he stopped, sucking in the wood's air and listening to the branches sway and wave.
The dog barked once and sat at the path's edge, looking back at him, a stern intensity in its eyes.
Matthew smelt smoke and saw a dark puff exhale from the kitchen door.
*
His mother lay on the floor and stank of acrid black smoke. The frying pan was ruined and cleaning the stove took Matthew longer than he expected. The walls were dirty now from the stink of oil and choking smoke. Dragging her clear of the kitchen had been easy, she was feather heavy. Her chest rose and fell and so Matthew left here there, shutting the door to the hallway while he doused the pan and fanned out the invading pall.
In bed, his mother turned from one side to the other, coughing and occasionally spitting into the bucket Matthew had left beside her. He had used a sponge to clean her face and now he watched as she moved about. The sound of the sheets shuffled and a lost bluebottle buzzed at the window, inches from escape through the opening there, but failing to realise. Gradually this became the only sound in the room as his mother eased her way into sleep. Matthew brought the sheet up tight to her, caught the fly and tossed it clear into the night air. Keeping watch on the woods, the dog sat in the garden, listening to shadows, turning once to the sound of Matthew at the window.
All night the dog sat there and in the morning Matthew fed it: cold meat from a can. Without school to worry about he took paint and brushes and hid the worst of the kitchen's soot under a fresh coat.
All day his mother lay in bed, though this wasn't unusual. Once the painting was finished he made sandwiches for them both, eating his in the sun outdoors. Hers remained untouched, which was usual. And, as always, he covered them in foil for his pack lunch the next day. The rest of the day he spent keeping watch over her and paranoid a neighbour might call about the smoke, rising like distress signals, the day before. But no one came. His mother slept on. The dog kept its vigil in the garden.
In the evening the fire was built up again and the dog exchanged its sentry post. Both he and Matthew stayed there like that for a second night.
In the morning Matthew set about his usual routine, tempting his mother out of bed, but she didn't rise and he was forced to leave her there, but before the dog could hop out through the door with him, he twisted and locked it in, though it grumbled and howled. School was no place for a stray dog.
Matthew reversed the detour he had used at the weekend and pushed on through the wood to the bus stop, though it was a longer route. The trees stood still today without a breath to move them or bring forth a familiar wave. Overhead the sky was clear, but it was chill and there was a dampness to the wood's air.
Chapter Three
The day was long. Double science meaning two hours with the girl from his bus. PE, meaning humiliation again from the teacher who didn't like quiet boys. Tutor time with the absent tutor. The others laughed at how awful he was, but they all knew it wasn't right. Normally Matthew could laugh along with this, but today, with his mind on the man who had chased him, only found it irritating that Mr Parish didn't care for any of them. The fact that the PE teacher disliked him so much, today, felt unfair. Before now he had simply ignored the fact, but now he felt his neck redden with righteous anger. The girl from the bus, from his science class; the other girl in the shop: they had no right to look at him the way they did.
The bell rang. They could go.
Normally he ate his lunch alone and he attempted to do so again today, but the seat he had taken a liking to was filled with sixth formers and his other nooks seemed to be occupied too. Returning to the bench with the sixth formers he decided to wait, standing behind them, waiting for them to leave.
At first he was patient and stood as a statue might while its master chiselled at the chin or the arm, but the longer he waited the redder he became. He felt the blood pump at his neck; could feel the hot fat swell of blood pushing at the stiff collar, tight around his neck.
He moved a little closer.
After a while he moved closer still, until, had they been his friends, he might have seemed a part of the group.
Gradually the girls stopped talking and looked at him; they tried to carry on with their chatter, but again their attention returned to him. One of them asked him if he wanted something, but he just stood dumbly, hot, angry and silent.
He spat at them.
He couldn't believe it. He had spat at them, but it wasn't him. It wasn't something he would ever do, but he had done it.
They had all shot up; the girl with the spit in her hair screamed and they backed away.
He sat down and ate his mother's unfinished sandwich.
No one came. The girls left.
After lunch, in registration, a man appeared looking for Mr Parish and, finding him absent, asked for Matthew by name. He was quickly pointed out and taken away.
In the man's office he was asked if had spat at the girl, but he didn't reply. The man wasn't surprised he didn't speak, he had been talking to the teachers about his behaviour today and his PE teacher had reliably informed him that he was 'out of sorts'. At the mention of her name Matthew tingled.
Reaching for the phone, the man informed him he was calling home: Matthew spoke.
"I'm sorry, Sir."
"Sorry?"
"Yes", he mumbled back.
He spent the rest of the day in a small room alone. Work from his lessons was sent along and he completed all of it in very little time, however each time the care assistant looked in he held his pen and appeared to puzzle over some problem he had found. But when the door was closed fast he sat on the table and stared out through the window and wondered how to avoid the man with shabby rags standing near the bus stop.
*
Standing at the gates of the school, a letter for his mother from the care assistant and deputy head in his hand, he watched others step on to coaches, buses and fall into waiting cars. From his vantage point he could see that his bus was waiting at the usual spot, pupils piling on board. He could see too the man watching each and every one as they stepped up, until finally the man too stepped aboard ushered by the driver impatient to keep to time. Matthew had decided to take the next bus.
The bus for his village came every hour and so, as the sun grew quieter in the sky, the air became chill.
Matthew wondered what would happen at his stop. He wondered if the man would be waiting for him, or whether he had given up, or had been chasing him at all. Whatever the answer he had resolved to either get off at the stop before his, or the one shortly after. The stop in the village would allow him a shorter walk home, but the one before was longer. But despite the length of the longer journey, Matthew knew he would have a better chance tramping through the fields and using any number of routes, whereas his other options only gave him one. If that one route should be blocked by the man, then he would be trapped.
A different driver picked Matthew up. The bus was empty. The sun was quickly sinking into the horizon's borders, but it was still a clear sky and the light would be enough.
At the stop Matthew was careful to have a good look round before making the final step from the bus to the earth.
Before the bus pulled off, Matthew used it for cover as the wood embraced him. Thick twigs and branches clattered back together like a saloon door in a Western; Matthew waited for quiet to return before plunging further into the wood. The wood was thick here and at times, when branches persistently tugged at his jacket, he huffed and became annoyed that he could not have just walked home as normal. But then he remembered the weathered and dirty look on the man, the filthy beard and torn clothing.
At the wood's end he stood surveying the field. It was wet from the farmer's hose shooting spurts of water out in great arcing circles. The sound futtered and sliced through the air.
Timing his dash, Matthew ran through the field rather than around; his jacket was quickly soaked through but he outstripped the rotating hose and walked the last hundred metres of pathway along the hedgerow, climbing up to his house.
A single light was on in his mother's room meaning she hadn't thought to light the hall for him or the driveway.
He used the kitchen door and stuffed his jacket in the washing machine along with his other wet clothing while the dog jumped and licked at his hands; he let it out, though it seemed reluctant to leave him.
After a warm shower Matthew built the fire up and let the dog back in. It quickly bolted in through the gap knocking the door open and scraping its sides, turning it growled at the door as Matthew closed the door and bolted up.
In his dreams he and the dog stood at the water's edge, it seemed like the creek at the foot of the hill, but it was silent.
Chapter Four
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.
Chapter Five
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 until morning light creaked at his eyelids.
Outside his father waited, both Matthew and the dog sensed him in the same moment and Matthew felt himself growl, grow hot with anger and tremble with revulsion.
*
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.
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.
Chapter Seven
The light that pricked at Matthew's lids was a new light, almost scented; colours slipped up into his vision drawing his hands up to brush the sleep from the corner of his eyes. Rich, white nails brushed themselves along the skin of his cheeks and, surprising him with their alien touch.The face that looked back from the mirror in his room was not his own, but he stood in front of the glass all the same. His hands were ever so slightly stretched, the skin taut, his nails white and new. He felt his jaw work tightly, free itself and click dryly as he worked it loose. Staring back at him was an adolescent version of his father's face, it made him cringe, stepping back, and as he did so, his lip raised, quivering with fear or anger, he wasn't quite sure. Colours stormed him again and the room swam with patterns, blemishes, stains. He turned to the window on the world outside.
The wild greens and clustered hills retreated from his gaze and the new scrutiny he regarded them with. The water was calm, slate blue, reflecting the empty openness of the sky above.
For an hour he stood at the window as the colours swam across his vision, his sense of aspect and distance playing with his mind; like the foreign texture of new clothes, his senses battled with something that was familiar, but suddenly wasn't. He felt loose in his own skin, even though now it felt that more taut and stretched. The bones in his hands seemed more prominent under the skin, almost pointed or sharpened, even ridged.
It was his birthday. His thirteenth.
Opening the bedroom door, he quietly let himself out on to the landing and slunk along to his mother's room. The room was empty but for the bright light of the morning reaching in from the west. The skin on his arms dimpled and the hairs rose.
Using the edges of the stairs and avoiding the creaks at the centre of the boards, Matthew made his way downstairs. From the second step he could see that his father was still sleeping, the tumbler's contents adding to his stained trousers.
Stepping into the embrace of the morning air, the sharp sun warmed him. A long line lit out through the grass, which was bent at an obscure angle, leaving a sunken fold in the dewy blanket. He picked out its direction, caught the lasting smell of his mother's scent and trotted down towards the creek.
Under a line of trees, the light pierced the nimble wooden edges of limbs and shifting patterns formed, fell away, swimming together across the mossy earth.
When Matthew reached the verge above the beach, he halted and scanned the sand. Soft steps, pressed into the sand, drifted down to the water's lip. He stepped up to the first, before hearing the crash and heavy pad of his father's maddened dash towards him.
Retreating to the water, Matthew fell back, step by step until the water reached his haunches. His father stood at the bank staring past him, the frenzied fury frozen there; his breath sent out puffs of steam like little signals and Matthew followed his eyes.
The upturned body of his mother sat as still as a leaf, floating in the light, wanting ever so desperately to follow the absent tug of the tide. The woman lay there uselessly and Matthew regarded her now for what she was: weak, frail and dead.
*
Matthew's father sank against the bank, merging with the muddy verge, his eyes locked on his wife's body. In Matthew's eyes he saw the same woman who, for the past two years, had barely the energy, or will, to nod her head, wave goodbye or greet him at the door. The woman was as mobile now as she had been in the best portion of his memory and he stepped away from her, his bare feet raking up the mud from the creek's bed as he moved away from her and his father.
As he took purchase of the far bank his father stirred, shaking his head as it snapped and stretched into a foul an inhuman shape. The nose pushed out and fell in on itself becoming a sharp-pointed muzzle and the eyes clouded over, while his fingers seemed to break and stretch into wide-spaced things that could claw and slash.
Now on the bank, Matthew raced up into the far woods, hearing the splash and suck of his father in the water behind him, then the crash and crunch as he tumbled into the wood in pursuit. He heard his father's voice, foul in his head, it left a stink there, the stink of misery and grief, muddied and gravelled.
He was getting closer, but Matthew didn't slow, he had a new-found well of energy and he wasn't prepared to slow: not yet. The road was getting closer and if he could reach it he felt the creature wouldn't follow him beyond the wood. The first day he had seen the man came back to him, he recalled that weary desperation in his eye and the bus that drew up just in time. He remembered his dog and the man that stood over the limp remains.
The road was coming into sight, but his father's heavy crash was closer; Matthew cut up a bank tearing at the earth with his outstretched hands pulling himself on and away and on towards the road. He didn't stop to look, to think, to listen, but instead fairly flew across the cold tarmac and into a car's empty wake. Behind him the wet, angry eyes of his father lurched out of the shadows and he plunged into the road. The bus struck him at an oblique angle, the creature's body flying ragdoll-like into the air almost perpendicular to the ground that it was launched from. Wheels ground against the road, the smell of melting rubber filling the air, brakes screamed into the quiet and his father's bloody body fell to the roadside.
Matthew saw it all and it became a long-treasured memory.
He buried his mother's body beside the dog, he owed her that much, but he buried her deeply.
He began to respond, on her behalf, to the letters in the post; he carried on collecting the money from her bank account as he had before, making sure the money went out for gas and electric, water and council, just as he had before. He told the doctor there was no need of a follow up and commended the surgery on their support. He informed the school that Matthew's behaviour would be addressed. And he lived that way until it was no longer necessary; he was still quiet, reclusive, but his teachers had become accustomed to this and so life, quietly, carried on in his empty house.
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