Keep It in the Family by John Marrs

Author:John Marrs [Marrs, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2022-10-17T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 43

THIRTY-NINE YEARS EARLIER

After extended periods of playing outside alone, I’ve learned to spend the first minutes of my return home standing quietly, listening to what the house is telling me. When the floorboards creak and the radiators gurgle it’s like it is trying to talk. And today it wants me to know that something has happened while I’ve been chasing wild rabbits around fields. There is something here that doesn’t belong. Or someone. I haven’t seen who it is, but I sense their presence. In the stuffiness of the corridors and hallways I can taste them.

It’s not Dad – the car he borrowed from the people who lived here before us isn’t on the drive – and we don’t get visitors, ever.

And then suddenly, warmth spreads through my small body. I know who it is. It’s George! He’s come back for me on my birthday! I turn fourteen tomorrow and he remembered!

Without thinking, I run up the staircase yelling his name. ‘You’re back!’ I shout and try to open his closed bedroom door. Only it’s locked. I rattle the handle but it won’t open. ‘Are you in there?’ I ask hopefully but there is no response. I ask again as the rush of warmth cools and I worry that I’ve let my imagination run away with me. An aching to be with my brother opens up inside me again, so wide and so desperate to be filled. Then, just as I’m about to leave, I spot his shadow under the door. I hold my breath, waiting for George to turn the handle, open the door, leap out and shout, ‘Surprise!’ Instead, I hear a completely different voice. It comes from a girl. ‘Help me,’ she whispers.

Scared, I back away, turn and run downstairs as fast as my legs can carry me, but they buckle and I fall down the last three, scuffing my knees. I land awkwardly at the base. I pick myself up and hurry into the kitchen.

Mum is sitting at the table with her back to me, her posture rigid, head straight and focused on a blank space on the wall. I wonder if the house is talking to her as well. A cigarette has burned down to the filter, leaving a neat line of ash. Back away now, I tell myself. Her mood swings are becoming completely unpredictable. But there is someone upstairs and it’s been months since they last told me to bring anyone back here. I have to know who it is.

‘Who’s in George’s bedroom?’ I ask quietly, but she maintains her silence. Nervously, I approach her and tug at her sleeve. The backhander she gives me is so unexpected that I’m sent crashing to the floor. Then she kicks her chair back as she rises to her feet and begins throwing anything at me that she can lay her hands on. She is hatchet-faced as I try to shield myself. Plates, a breadboard, a saucepan and a washing-up bowl fly into or above me.

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