in the chair by the stove.
Lying, thieving little bastard.
John tightens his grip; the parrot fights against him.
Shut up. Shut up.
The parrot’s black eyes blink. He has to make it stop. He squeezes until his knuckles crack, until bones crack.
‘What have you done?’
His mum is behind him; he can’t make himself turn around. The parrot won’t stay still, rolling, but it is his hands shaking not the bird waking up, rustling its feathers, plucking at itself as it did in the mornings.
She pokes his shoulder.
‘John. Show me.’
John the son, not John the father. She has it all wrong.
He
did this. John turns, offers up the lifeless little body. Something cold and sharp as the bird’s beak about the look his mum gives him. She takes the parrot, holds it gently against her cheek, its claws curled up like snapped fingers; listening for something: a heartbeat, a whisper?
Who loves you, who loves you?
The broken neck swivels back but the dead eyes are still on him.
‘I told you we never should’ve taken that thing in, Ada.’ The voice is angry again. ‘You haven’t got time to take care of all of us.’
The paper drops down, sheets drifting across the room, a finger points at his mum and John steps in front of her. The porridge steams and pops behind them. She knocks against John to get to the stove; pushing the bird back into his hands as if it is scalding, but he won’t touch it, not again. Grey feathers flutter; the body bounces once as it hits the floor.
‘That parrot never lied and cheated me out of what was mine, not like my own son.’ She lifts the pan and sniffs for burning.
His dad laughs. ‘You better get that cage cleaned out. I can sell it down the pub, seeing as we can’t ask for money back on the mirror. Every debt has to be paid…’ The voice trails out of the room.
The bird lies by the empty chair. John pokes a wing with his boot; it fans out like the pages of a freshly printed book. ‘I’m going to kill
him
one day.’ The chair shakes as he grips it tight.
‘Don’t speak about your father like that.
He’d
never give my birthday gift to someone else. I thought you were differentfrom your brothers and the Winnies. Thought I was enough for you.’ She bangs the pan in the sink.
‘I’ve been saving up for your present, honest I have.’ He wipes his sleeve under his nose. His mum points at the floor.
‘Stop snivelling. It’s your mess. Clear it up.’
John gets down on his knees, scoops up the paper and covers the bird. He sees her brown leather boots leave the room: no hand to tap his cheek, no soft brush of her apron. She is gone. And he is gone.
Footsteps thump around upstairs, trampling him. He runs out of the house into the alley. He shudders, watching the shadows from the bedroom as they slither across the muddy yard. Nothing left for him here. John Munday is dead. Hot sick hits his boots and brown lumps lie in his hand. The remains of that sweet toffee apple sink into the dirt under his feet.
TEN
J ack pulled on his shirt and waistcoat, the arms threaded through from the night before. Pearl and Frank were talking in the kitchen. It was good to hear voices in the house; it drowned out the whispering echoes that had never left. He smoothed his thick hair into place with Brylcreem until it was black as pitch, pushed his chin out a little further. He swung the jacket over his shoulder as he went downstairs. ‘Get a move on. We’ve got work to do.’
Frank came out of the kitchen. Jack had a surprise for him; he couldn’t let his fighter look like a tramp. He undid the parcel on the coat-stand, brown paper and string drifting to the floor; he tossed the new jumper to Frank. Pearl stood in the doorway to watch, her fingers tugging and curling at a strand of dark hair. Jack knew the importance of warm, quality clothes even if she didn’t, but then she’d never really gone without.
Frank held up the pullover; the bright white wool glowed in the dim hallway. ‘It’ll
Lying, thieving little bastard.
John tightens his grip; the parrot fights against him.
Shut up. Shut up.
The parrot’s black eyes blink. He has to make it stop. He squeezes until his knuckles crack, until bones crack.
‘What have you done?’
His mum is behind him; he can’t make himself turn around. The parrot won’t stay still, rolling, but it is his hands shaking not the bird waking up, rustling its feathers, plucking at itself as it did in the mornings.
She pokes his shoulder.
‘John. Show me.’
John the son, not John the father. She has it all wrong.
He
did this. John turns, offers up the lifeless little body. Something cold and sharp as the bird’s beak about the look his mum gives him. She takes the parrot, holds it gently against her cheek, its claws curled up like snapped fingers; listening for something: a heartbeat, a whisper?
Who loves you, who loves you?
The broken neck swivels back but the dead eyes are still on him.
‘I told you we never should’ve taken that thing in, Ada.’ The voice is angry again. ‘You haven’t got time to take care of all of us.’
The paper drops down, sheets drifting across the room, a finger points at his mum and John steps in front of her. The porridge steams and pops behind them. She knocks against John to get to the stove; pushing the bird back into his hands as if it is scalding, but he won’t touch it, not again. Grey feathers flutter; the body bounces once as it hits the floor.
‘That parrot never lied and cheated me out of what was mine, not like my own son.’ She lifts the pan and sniffs for burning.
His dad laughs. ‘You better get that cage cleaned out. I can sell it down the pub, seeing as we can’t ask for money back on the mirror. Every debt has to be paid…’ The voice trails out of the room.
The bird lies by the empty chair. John pokes a wing with his boot; it fans out like the pages of a freshly printed book. ‘I’m going to kill
him
one day.’ The chair shakes as he grips it tight.
‘Don’t speak about your father like that.
He’d
never give my birthday gift to someone else. I thought you were differentfrom your brothers and the Winnies. Thought I was enough for you.’ She bangs the pan in the sink.
‘I’ve been saving up for your present, honest I have.’ He wipes his sleeve under his nose. His mum points at the floor.
‘Stop snivelling. It’s your mess. Clear it up.’
John gets down on his knees, scoops up the paper and covers the bird. He sees her brown leather boots leave the room: no hand to tap his cheek, no soft brush of her apron. She is gone. And he is gone.
Footsteps thump around upstairs, trampling him. He runs out of the house into the alley. He shudders, watching the shadows from the bedroom as they slither across the muddy yard. Nothing left for him here. John Munday is dead. Hot sick hits his boots and brown lumps lie in his hand. The remains of that sweet toffee apple sink into the dirt under his feet.
TEN
J ack pulled on his shirt and waistcoat, the arms threaded through from the night before. Pearl and Frank were talking in the kitchen. It was good to hear voices in the house; it drowned out the whispering echoes that had never left. He smoothed his thick hair into place with Brylcreem until it was black as pitch, pushed his chin out a little further. He swung the jacket over his shoulder as he went downstairs. ‘Get a move on. We’ve got work to do.’
Frank came out of the kitchen. Jack had a surprise for him; he couldn’t let his fighter look like a tramp. He undid the parcel on the coat-stand, brown paper and string drifting to the floor; he tossed the new jumper to Frank. Pearl stood in the doorway to watch, her fingers tugging and curling at a strand of dark hair. Jack knew the importance of warm, quality clothes even if she didn’t, but then she’d never really gone without.
Frank held up the pullover; the bright white wool glowed in the dim hallway. ‘It’ll
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