The Longest Fight by Emily Bullock

kitchen, attracted by the sound of a row. He stands in the corner by the dresser, smiling, and waits his turn. John tries to cough up the taste of ink.
    ‘Tommy, son, you were there. What did you see?’
    ‘I saw him do it, Dad.’ He chews his nail and passes the lie without blinking.
    John knows every debt has to be paid, knows this will be over quicker if he keeps his mouth shut, but Rosie’s smiling face, her grey eyes glow in the embers of the fire beside him. He can be what she thinks he is. He can be strong. He can try.
    ‘I never done it,’ John whispers.
    ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ His dad’s voice is cold and low. ‘Are you calling your brother a liar?’
    He slides the yellow mirror out of John’s back pocket; lifts it up for the room to see. Light catches the glass; it winks. His mum reaches out for it, holds it up to her face.
    ‘My birthday’s next week. Maybe it’s for me.’
    ‘No, Ada. It’s for some tart, ain’t it, boy?’ His dad shakes John’s arms until the tremor spreads up his neck.
    ‘Turning against your own mother like that.’ His mum bends down, pushes the mirror between the bars of the grate. ‘It’s only bad luck if I smash it.’
    The fire licks and consumes it, cracking and snapping. The grip on his arm slackens; John drops to the floor. His mum keeps her back to him, warming her hands by the stove. He has let them both down, Rosie and his mum. He doesn’t blame her for not wanting to look at him. He blames his dad.
    ‘Get out, I need a word with the boy.’ His dad speaks and everyone leaves.
    John waits but the belt doesn’t come. The parrot is talking to itself, loud enough to be heard down the corridor. His dad opens the back door, throws the porridge spoon at the cage. The parrot is shouting now.
    ‘Damn bird. You better shut that bloody creature up or I’ll whip you in front of that girl. Won’t be such a cock of the walk then, will you?’
    John pulls himself up; he could run for it but his dad is still fast; he’d have John by the neck before he made it to the street.
    ‘I mean it, boy. Now.’
    John tries to hush the bird, puts his fingers inside the bars. But it pecks and scratches. The parrot plummets from its chewed wooden perch to the newspaper-covered floor of the iron cage. It bangs its beak into the bowl, trying to join its reflection. Water spills; shredded paper and dust swirl in a dark cloud around the bird’s wings. Alone, it begins to scream.
    ‘I can still hear it,’ the voice rings out. ‘Bring that bloody thing here.’
    John unhooks the cage, but he knows that isn’t going to make the bird quiet.
    ‘I’m going to teach you a lesson, son. You might think you’re the big
I am,
going round with girls, but you’ve got responsibilities, debts you owe me and your mother. It’s about time you learned to be a real man, ain’t it?’
    ‘Yes.’ John stands with the cage in his hands. The bird screeches, its cries getting raspy.
    ‘How you going to shut that creature up?’
    ‘I could feed it something.’
    It is the wrong answer; his dad’s eyebrows are still hunched together.
    ‘I could cover its cage up.’
    A blast of wet air explodes from his dad’s nostrils. Still wrong. John has to be a man. He puts the cage on the dresser, opens it up. The metal door gives a loud cry of its own as he reaches inside. His dad peers closer.
    ‘That bird’s never been nothing but bad luck – take, take, take all the time. Never gives us nothing but shit and hot air.’
    The parrot screams and screams. John doesn’t feel the clawing, but the feathers stick like needles. ‘Shut up, shut up,’ he hisses. But the parrot won’t listen. John squeezes his hands around the thin body, traps its wings. The battering of its heart is faster than the spin on a motorcar wheel.
    ‘That’s it, boy. Show it you won’t take no more. Stand up to it.’
    Shut up, shut up.
He sees the nod of his dad’s head and the rustle of newspaper as he settles back