“No.” I can still see his face contort in a kind of shock and surprise that people only have when they’ve discovered a roach floating in their soup bowl. For a brief second, they just stood there, almost facing off to each other. Then the cunt swung a fist so hard at her that she flew across the first half a dozen or so steps, cart-wheeled the next few and flew head-first into the wall below. Her neck must have snapped on the way down because she lay there completely still, her eyes wide open and glaring out with raw horror. They were staring at me, as if seeking me out; as if trying to tell me some final message.
But what I remember next is something that makes no sense now but did at the time. My brother Eddie spoke to me for the very first time. And when he spoke to me, it was as if I had known he was there all along. He wasn’t a stranger, didn’t sound like a stranger, but rather like an old friend. You see, Jim, Eddie lives in my head. He was then, and is now, as much a part of this body, this consciousness, as me.
“That fucker just killed her,” was what he said to me. It didn’t scare me hearing that voice, didn’t shock me either. Hell, it didn’t even surprise me. It was like it belonged, had been there forever but had only decided to speak out at that particular moment. My father kinda just stood there for a moment, looking down at her. His eyes looked tired, weary with drink. Then he began to speak her name, over and over, as if demanding her to answer him. When she refused to, he half stumbled down the stairs and tried to pick her up by her arms, dragging her across the floor.
When the prick realized that my mother’s dancing days were done, he dropped her to the floor like a dirty mop and just stood there again. He was staring at me now, looking at me with those dark lifeless eyes he had when he was angry. I believe now that what my father was pondering was whether or not to kill me. I did, after all, just witness him murder my mother.
I’m not sure whether I did actually piss my pants or just imagine it, but the next thing I knew, his face was only inches away from mine and he was screaming. His words were coming out in a slew of spittle and dank breath that reeked of beer. I don’t remember much else, only that he dragged me to my bedroom, shrieked at me to keep my mouth shut, then slammed the door, locking it with finality.
5.
The next time I saw my father, Royce Packard was with him. Royce had gone to school with my father and they’d been mates for years. They would catch up regularly to sink the drink at the pub and relive the good old days. Royce was also a police constable and now stood in my bedroom in his uniform, his policeman’s cap almost touching the roof. He was so dam tall, easily towering over my father. He also had a strange look in his eyes as he asked me questions.
I don’t remember what he asked, only that he never stopped staring at me with those strange eyes, black as death itself. I remember feeling scared, but not in the way I was scared of my father. That fear was trying to avoid his fists on a Friday night. No, this fear, the fear I felt when Royce Packard stared at me? That fear ran all the way down into my boots. He was a scary fucker. There was something about him that just seemed to run into your veins then freeze them into icicles.
They both stood in my room, my father a little behind Royce. He lent forward, raising himself onto his toes, then whispered something into Royce’s ear. The policeman listened with interest and nervousness washed over me as his face began to grin, his lips pursing tight, exposing his blackened teeth.
When he began to nod, I felt the pit of my stomach begin to churn uncomfortably, like when you know something bad is about to happen. But to my surprise, both men simply turned and walked out of my room. I remember feeling relief as Royce began to close the door, then felt a ghost reach into my chest as he turned to look at me over his shoulder. He shot me a final wink and a grin. I’m not quite positive, but I’m pretty sure that’s when I pissed my pants again.
6.
Life for my father, Eddie and I became a kind of routine. He would go to work when he could, if he was sober enough, and I would go to school. My mother was never mentioned again. The few friends I did have, had begun to slowly dwindle away as the whispers around me increased. I could feel the eyes watching me whenever I walked down a school corridor or walked around the school yard. I couldn’t work out why my friends no longer wanted to play with me but then, one day during our lunch break, Reedy Thompson the school bully, decided to educate me.
This happened a few years after my mother died. I was 9-years old by then and time was about to tap me on the shoulder. I’d been walking across the oval carrying my lunch bag. My
